The Beak of the Crow
by Kage
Summary: When the Warden falls to a rare Crow poison, it's up to Zevran and Leliana to find the antidote before it's too late. Set after the armies have been gathered and Eamon revived, and before the Landsmeet is called. Mild violence. Zevran/M!CE.
1. Part I

PART I

The Wardens announced their intent to seek out Ostagar only the evening before they left. Daen's mabari, Soris, slipped to his master's side on surprisingly silent feet. Wynne, with all her grandmotherly muster, insisted on joining them. Zevran tried to follow, but was stopped by a tired backwards glance. "Please, Zev. We talked about this," he said, and Zevran had no choice but to turn back and rejoin the others. They watched the small group leave through cold mists at dawn.

The little group returned a full two days later, in the middle of a lazy cloudless afternoon. The dog loped in first, his massive head held so low to the ground that he spared Zevran only the most cursory of glances through the corner of his eye. He assumed his customary post at the mouth of the campsite, but lay down as if to sleep, his head molded to his forepaws.

Wynne followed, her age in her eyes and descended to perch upon her shoulders. Leliana attempted to offer the mage a hot mug of Morrigan's latest batch of tea, but Wynne demonstrated that she was still capable of doing that much herself before disappearing silently into her tent, steaming mug in hand.

Daen and Alistair arrived last.

Zevran had seen the detached expressions on their faces before. Many of the younger Crows returned from a contract with the same look—not after their first or even second kills, but later, when they knew enough of their skills to know that they could be a thriving member of the Crows for many more years to come. The realization would strike like a death sentence, and be just as fatal to many. The veteran Crows called this time the Fledging, a rite of passage that often decided whether a Crow would resign himself to his fate, or be found as a rotting corpse sweetening the local water supply within the week. The former could truly call himself a Crow. The latter had never existed.

It was that moment of not knowing whether to accept a lifetime of treading water or to sink silently into a world away from here that haunted the Wardens' visages. There was a touch less hesitation in Daen than in Alistair, however, and Zevran felt a momentary spark of affection for the younger elf. He would have expected no less from the man he owed his life to than a readiness to move on.

Daen had grown on him quite a bit in recent weeks, Zevran had to admit. He hadn't quite known what to expect from the waifish youth with the ink black eyes and ragged pale hair all those many months ago, not while he had been so impatient to see the contract to its conclusion, whichever way it was meant to be. All Zevran knew was that he was to kill the Grey Wardens—and they clearly had the upper hand.

As he lay trussed at their feet, lacking only an apple in his mouth to complete the picture, years of training and practice at talking his way out of tight spots managed to get him out of the ropes and into the Wardens' own troupe of mismatched outcasts. From there, he had reasoned, it would be a simple matter of finding an opportunity to slip away into the night, finally free and with the Crows none the wiser. Perhaps he might even redeem himself and finish the job, should he choose. And how delicious it had felt to be able to choose!

But that opportunity had never come. He was well and truly trapped with the Wardens, just as surely as he had been with the Crows. Zevran couldn't turn around without finding himself on the periphery of the human Warden's suspicious eyes, while the dark-haired swamp witch seemed to be silently promising a world of pain every time she looked at him. After the Orlesian Chantry sister "accidentally" buried an arrow in a tree two inches from his nose while standing across the entire length of the campsite from him, he quickly figured out that she was not entirely the bubble-headed girl she pretended to be.

It was no better at night. They all took their share of nightwatches, of course, but the qunari and the mabari in particular both woke at the slightest sound even when not on duty. All the more frustrating, because the Warden he had bonded himself to still slept like the city-bred elf he was, still accustomed to his alienage life where danger came barging through the front door howling like a hound in heat, rather than slipping in with the shadows on padded feet. His unexplained Warden senses meant darkspawn never took him by surprise, but in everything else he was a reactor, not a sensor. And when he was deep into sleep, nothing short of a solid punch to the head would wake him.

He also had a strange penchant for allying himself with the oddest causes and persons he encountered almost everywhere he went. True, some of those were due to his obligations as a Grey Warden, but despite the urgency of his own situation, Daen had yet to turn down a request, even when it meant traversing bandit-ridden back alleys or demon-infested ruins—or worse, doing odd jobs for a Crow master. Zevran would have preferred to believe that Daen owed his habits more to a mercenary bent than the goodness of his heart, but even he would hesitate before placing a bet on it. There was a deliberate purpose beyond money to everything Daen did, whether it was out of kindness or cruelty. But, well, everyone had a weakness, somewhere. Daen's was fairly easy to decipher. He, like many of his city-born brethren, was the kind of elf who felt wronged beyond what material goods could remedy. His weakness was the immaterial; he fell prey to things like honor, family, camaraderie...and hands that chose him and him alone.

Zevran used that to his advantage, intending to protect himself from the tiresome constancy of watchful eyes. And it wasn't as though the mark himself was unattractive; he still looked like a boy from many angles, but he had a way of fighting, with deliberate, cocksure motions that spoke of foresight as well as a degree of training from childhood. And the slender body, the pale cornsilk hair—it all begged to be touched, and made things interesting.

He saw an opening on his first foray with Daen and the wilder witch. It took a bit of observation and simply biding his time, but all of the signs were there for him to take when the cards finally fell in his favor. It had not been the easiest seduction, what with Daen still raw from Morrigan's rejection and Alistair constantly muttering about daggers and poison. And although Zevran did not know how freely elves loved in the Denerim alienage—Fereldans were all so amusingly prudish compared to even the most modest Antivan—he did know that their lives were never really theirs, and he could only guess that their love lives were much the same. Whether it was the walls that corralled them in the lowest point of the city or the preening humans that strode through on a daily basis, looking for sport as casually as one would browse a market stall for a new dress-shirt, few elves in Denerim could expect long, happy lives with their loved ones intact. It was no wonder that Daen guarded his heart with such a careful hand.

He had nothing else to do for the time being, however, and unlike similar games he played in the past, he did not have a pressing deadline to distract him from the pursuit. It made chipping his way into Daen's trust and affections an interesting game, with rewards presenting themselves almost every day, whether it was an intimate moment or childhood memories Zevran himself did not have.

Zevran had once described an Antivan sunset to the Warden—idle pillow talk, no more—and had been pleasantly surprised when Daen responded with a memory of his own. Daen was already half-asleep, one hand curled comfortably against the small of Zevran's back and the blanket pulled over his nose, and mumbled drowsily that he used to climb to the upper branches of his alienage's _vhenedhal_ almost every day and strain his eyes into the sunset, hoping to see further and further beyond the horizon. Scaling the sacred _vhenedhal_ earned him constant scolding from the Elder and his father, but he still did it; above the squalor and with the green smell of the tree in his nostrils, wreathed in bark and leaves and staring into the rose of light blooming over thatched and tiled roofs, it was so easy to imagine taking his entire family into the lands beyond that horizon. Somewhere outside the alienage lay a cleaner, happier, and freer life that Daen could only dream of, bathed in the rust-gold rays of the dying sun.

Zevran had liked the image of a towheaded elven child, black eyes ablaze, clinging to the branches of a _vhenedhal_, so he asked Daen what he thought that life looked like, wondering where that child would climb next. _A farm, a big farm, with cows and wheat and grass and apple trees,_ Daen replied just before he slipped into unconsciousness. The assassin couldn't help chuckling as he remembered the reply, just as he had when he heard it then. Open land he could understand, considering the packed conditions of most alienages, but farms were smelly things that he personally preferred to avoid. The Denerim alienage must be miserable indeed, if a farm was Daen's personal vision of the Golden City!

Daen still would not say much about how he ended up in the Grey Wardens, except that it was not the way he had envisioned himself leaving the alienage. _Human games at work, again_, he had hinted bitterly, but said no more. No doubt it was part of the reason why Daen was a little on the angry side for one so young. Zevran could understand that. Humans had often toyed with his life in Antiva, although with the exception of the Guildmasters, he found many chances to toy right back. But Daen was a fair bit younger than Zevran, and he had had a family to protect. Zevran thought that that had helped Daen in keeping a gentle heart, even if it could only be seen after much convincing. And what an interesting heart it was, at first caress fluttering like a snared _allodal_'s wings, then, with each additional touch, settling into the rhythm of the tides drumming against the bellies of boats at harbor! It almost moved one to poetry.

_Like music to my ears, and the finest leather beneath my fingers._

Of the two Wardens, though, Zevran had much less patience for Alistair—he wasn't sleeping with the man, after all—but, despite how tedious the human could be otherwise, even Zevran could recognize that Alistair was a Warden for the times. He had found Alistair's demeanor intriguing enough at first, too, until Alistair put two and two together, confirmed his suspicions with Wynne, Leliana, and even Morrigan, and then told Zevran (blush creeping well past his collar and hairline) that he was "not interested, actually a lady kind of guy, thanks." Zevran had not minded; there was nothing wrong with appreciating beauty for what it was, even if it led to nothing else, and he told Alistair this frankly in an attempt to soothe the human's Fereldan sensibilities. Unfortunately, the comment had just made the young man watch Zevran even more closely. Zevran hadn't minded that, either. Alistair wasn't the type to hide his hand, unlike his fellow Warden, and Zevran happily took advantage of that, exploiting Alistair's discomfort whenever he needed to pass the time.

But where Daen's past was a shield, Alistair's was a cloak, and one wrapped so closely about his shoulders that he had thoroughly tangled himself in its entire length. Alistair, like Daen, did not speak of certain parts of his past. They had only just discovered that Alistair was a potential heir to Ferelden's throne—the blood of King Calenhad, no less! Zevran could only guess at what else the young human was hiding from all of them, even his fellow Grey Warden. But whatever it was, it was the reason why the senior Warden followed while the junior led when custom dictated it be the other way around. Zevran could only hope, for Alistair's sake, that he would one day learn to lay his past down.

The trip to Ostagar, however, clearly had not helped.

"Somebody get those whelps a drink," Oghren muttered, watching Daen settle Alistair into a seat by the fire.

"Oh? Are you offering your own stores, my soggy friend?" Zevran glanced at the dwarf, only to be met by a glazed pair of eyes that would look more at home in a mother wolf's face than a dwarf's.

"Soddin'—! Keep yer fancy elf mitts off my stash, ye bloody thief!"

"True, I am not above a burgle or two, but I must admit I prefer exercising my talents in other fields." Zevran eyed Alistair's hunched back. Daen seemed to be paying quite a bit of attention to the human—maybe a little more than necessary. "But if our Wardens cannot share in your wealth, then perhaps you might be willing to help me liberate a few kegs from the Spoiled Princess?"

"Bah! I'll ilebreate 'm myself. My treat fer those sorry excuses of Wardens we're stuck with now. The Archdemon could send a half dead hurlock te fart on 'm right now and we'd be outta Wardens in no time." Oghren drained the skin he kept tucked under his beard, belched brimstone, and stood, hefting his axe over his shoulder. "Be right back. An' if you hear a fart...well, it might just be me, but 'm countin' on ye to clear those damn Wardens outta here. Jus' let Morrigan handle the hurlock. Tell 'er a fireball ought to do the trick. Either that or 'er soddin' tea."

* * *

Daen eventually asked Leliana to sing something, and it was clear that her voice took minds off of Ostagar. Even the dog had tucked himself into the crook of Daen's arm to listen, occasionally licking Alistair's hand in a gesture of sympathy. Daen's narrow shoulders barely cleared the dog's head when they stood together, and the size difference between the bonded pair was even more obvious now, with Daen reclined against his mabari's bulk. Zevran contemplated approaching, but both Wardens seemed preoccupied. Zevran instead turned his attention to Wynne when the woman emerged from her tent to return to the fire, empty mug dangling from her hand.

"I am wondering whether you would care to share what happened at Ostagar, my darling Wynne?" Zevran handed Wynne the heated pot of water before she had even reached for it. She took it without comment and tipped it towards her mug.

Wynne sighed. "Zevran, for the last time, I am not your—oh, never mind." The mage filled her mug, handed the pot back to Zevran, and inhaled the rising steam before continuing. "The camp was deserted, of course. Scavengers and snow and darkspawn and those nasty giant cave spiders everywhere. And we...found King Cailan. What the spawn had left of him, anyway."

"Oh. I see." Zevran cast a furtive glance at Daen. "The Wardens are not taking it very well."

"I wouldn't expect you to understand, Zevran. You weren't there that night. And you never knew the king."

Zevran shrugged. "Perhaps not. Then again, Daen seems to be doing better than Alistair."

Wynne arched an eyebrow. "Somehow, that comment doesn't surprise me. But you're probably correct, and with reason. Daen only met King Cailan once, and then only the day before the battle. As far as he's concerned, the king was just another human with a sword." Wynne chuckled wryly. "Alistair...he hasn't spoken much of it, but I shouldn't have to remind you that King Cailan was his brother...and his leader. His hope. His king."

"Hope?" Zevran returned Wynne's skeptical glance. "From what I have heard, your king was a bit of a fool, and not a very great king at all."

Wynne could be hard to read, but the kind mask she usually wore fell at his words to reveal a woman he would have done his best to avoid on the battlefield. "He was my king, too, Zevran."

"Ah. I apologize."

The mask returned. "As I said, I wouldn't expect you to understand."

"Fair enough, sweet Wynne. Fair enough. Now, I think you should know—I have sent Oghren on a mission of utmost importance, and it is my hope that you will not disapprove so much when he returns."

"Oh?" She gave him a suspicious look.

"Yes. You see, they looked so tense, and libations do _so_ many wonders for relieving stress."

"You sent the camp drunk to get alcohol, in order to get the Wardens drunk." She shook her head. "Sweet Maker, save me from the men I travel with."

"I am hurt!"

"You are not. What were you expecting me to do, smile and approve of what will surely mean constant babysitting while Alistair and Daen disgorge their dinner into the wee hours of the morning?"

"Hmm...maybe it was a little too much to ask for."

"I should think so. I would put you and Oghren in charge of the nursery, except we'd likely wake up with dead babes. Leliana can do it. I am planning on getting some sleep."

"You shall see, oh winsome one, that I made the correct decision." He winked. "And Oghren will be bringing a cask back for you, as well."

"Oh?" Wynne seemed mollified. "Well, that doesn't sound too bad, then."

_Hmm. No wonder Daen keeps giving her bottles of wine. He is on to something, that little _gatto_._

* * *

Oghren returned within the hour, interrupting Leliana's rendition of "Dane and the Werewolf" ("In honor of our own Daen," she'd said with a wink before beginning). He rolled a full keg before him, his pack clinking cheerfully over his back and his face pink with exertion—and, judging from his breath, some sampling. "Saint Oghren's back, an' he's brought yer presents, kiddos," he wheezed. "Gather 'round!"

Shale, who rarely moved from the position it took whenever they made camp, had followed Oghren to the campfire. "Oh, joy, any presents the drunk dwarf has in its possession are surely not poisonous or foul in any way," the golem said flatly. "It drinks so much that it probably pisses spirits. I suspect it stole a barrel and filled it itself."

Leliana gagged. "Oh, thank you for that, Shale."

"Well, yes, that was rather quick, Oghren," Wynne said suspiciously.

Oghren shrugged. "Ran into an elf merchant right outside o' the Spoiled Princess, droppin' off all kinds o' spirits fer the innkeeper. Said she was tryin' te lighten 'er wagon, on account o' outrunnin' the Blight an' 'avin' 'er whole family along fer the ride. So ye know me, couldn' pass up a chance te help out!" He dropped his backpack on the ground with so much force that Zevran was surprised nothing had shattered.

"Did you buy her entire stock?" Wynne asked, wrinkling her nose as she watched Zevran open Oghren's pack and reveal a veritable army of glass bottles. Leliana peered over Zevran's shoulder, looking at the bottles with an interested gleam in her eyes.

Oghren pretended not to hear her, busying himself with standing the keg on a nearby tree stump. "Alistair! Daen! Come on, this one's all fer you two!"

Zevran, meanwhile, turned and triumphantly plunked a dusty green bottle by Wynne's feet. "And this one is for you, sweet Wynne!"

Wynne snorted softly as she examined the bottle. "9:18 Dragon out of Amaranthine...not the finest year for their grapes. The wet gave them all a very distinctly fishy flavor. Stuck to the back of your throat like an apprentice's popped toad on the wall. Or was that 9:02...? Hand me my corkscrew, Zevran."

The Wardens, meanwhile, had wandered over to Oghren, and were eying the keg with some consternation. "Are you serious, Oghren?" Alistair finally asked, the first words Zevran had heard him speak since returning from Ostagar. His voice was a bit stuffy, as though he was still moping. "I'm not really in the mood..."

"Trust me, pike-twirler, this kinda mood is the best kinda mood fer drinkin' yer arse te oblivion." Oghren tapped the barrel with a single expert strike of a hammer. "Hand me yer mugs."

Daen shrugged and bent to untie the mugs he and his brother Warden kept tied to their packs. Alistair sighed and helped him undo the knots on his own mug, passing both to Oghren. "Maker, the last thing I need right now is to die from drinking whatever foul brew Oghren's dragged in to camp..."

"Don' deride 'fore ye imbibe," Oghren said.

"What?"

Oghren shoved a foaming mug into Alistair's hands. "Time te bring the lightnin' down on yer head, Chantry boy."

* * *

_Sorry about the magically disappearing prologue. -K, 11/05/2012_


	2. Part II

PART II

"Aye, that's the spirit, Alistair," Oghren grinned approvingly. "And how're ye feelin', elf? Ready for another?"

Daen laughed and tipped his second empty mug towards Oghren. Zevran smiled smugly at Wynne. "You see, this is exactly what our Wardens needed."

Wynne raised a brow at him over the rim of her wine-filled mug. She had only just filled it, after letting the opened bottle stand undisturbed for a while. "I suppose. I would be willing to bet that the Wardens will beg to differ tomorrow morning, at the rate that keg is going." She took a sip and choked. "9:18, definitely," she gasped. "Although...it does grow on you."

A muffled thump interrupted Zevran's moment of triumph.

Oghren grunted. "Jus' barely managed to save yer mug, boy, watch what yer doing!"

"Whoa!" Alistair cried. "I think somebody's had a bit too much to drink! How much did you give him, dwarf?"

"Eh, I've seen 'm swallow more, an' the kind that'll rip a dwarf's beard right off his chin at that. Somebody check on 'm already."

The dog was barking at an unusual tempo and dancing anxiously beside Daen's prone form. Zevran rose from his seat as Wynne rushed to Daen's side. "Alistair, stop gawking, get those swords off of his back, and help me turn him over," she ordered. "And would somebody please calm the dog down?"

Zevran approached Soris and ran a hand down his back. He was rarely overly friendly with anyone other than Daen, but he still adored a good scratch every now and then. This time, however, the dog's muscles remained knotted and tense beneath his bristling coat of fur, and he continued to bark in quick staccato notes. "Now, Soris, your master is fine, he has just had too much to drink like a—"

"Sweet Maker! Get Morrigan! Sten, Shale, whichever—I need you to carry him to my tent. Move! Now!"

The change in Wynne's tone had Zevran hovering over her shoulder before he realized he had moved. It was difficult to discern what Wynne had seen between the interplay of shadows and wavering firelight, but Daen's eyes were rolled clear to the back of his head and his chin was covered in the dark liquid of the beer he had been sipping. He was clearly unconscious, and his chest rose and fell rapidly, as though he struggled to breathe.

Sten bumped casually past Zevran and bent over, rising with the Warden's limp body in his arms and setting off for Wynne's tent without a word. The mage followed, outpaced only by the dog; Alistair trailed behind.

"What happened, Zevran? Did you see?" Leliana appeared by Zevran's side with a silence he took a moment to admire. She had gone to call for Morrigan, and the witch followed her with the surefooted tread of a hunting wolf.

"Yes, Zevran, pray tell what emergency requires my attention now? I certainly had no personal desire to join your latest round of debauchery." Morrigan raised her eyebrows to punctuate her irritation, heavily lidded eyes lazy with disdain. She looked at everyone like that, their lovely swamp witch, but she had been particularly disgusted with Zevran in recent weeks. Oh, he knew what he had done to earn such special treatment from those yellow eyes. But Zevran loved interfering, and Morrigan didn't appreciate interference, and somebody still had to save the poor boy from her clutches. Zevran had been more than happy to volunteer.

Zevran couldn't resist a charming smile. "I suspect our dear Warden has had too much to drink."

"Is that all?" Morrigan sighed and fiddled with the pouch of herbs hanging from her belt, puffing her cheeks slightly in relieved irritation. "'Tis not fatal, then. I certainly have the ingredients necessary to take care of a headache—'though I would personally suggest that he be allowed to suffer a bit to learn a lesson."

"I do not think it is just that he had too much to drink, Zevran," Leliana interjected. "I have never heard Wynne speak with such urgency. And the dog, I think she is trying to tell us there is something wrong."

Oghren grunted and belched, having just drained Daen's abandoned mug. "Like I said—the elf's had worse. Ye might wanna check 'm out, witchy. 'M sure it's nothing, but Wynne asked fer ye. 'T'ain't somethin' she can cure on 'er own." He paused, blinking rapidly. "Whoa. Did ye jus' see the dragon that flew by? 'Ad a hole in its belly the size o' my fist! Eh...someone should shoot it. Hand me my crossbow, would ye?"

Morrigan sighed again and headed towards the tent, sidestepping Sten as he emerged. Zevran took Sten's lack of alarm as a good sign—although the qunari never really had much of a range of expressions.

"What has happened, Sten?" Leliana called out, jogging towards Wynne's tent. Sten seemed to have decided to assume a post by the tent flap rather than return to the fire. Zevran shrugged and followed—it was unlikely that Wynne's tent would be able to hold many more people. Oghren remained at the fire, forsaking mugs to down the rest of the beer straight from the barrel.

Sten looked down at the red-haired bard. Leliana often seemed to confuse him, but he tolerated her, just as he did the others. "The Warden is not well," he said shortly. "He may have been poisoned."

Zevran felt as if the qunari had just thrown him off of a roof. "What? Maker preserve us!" Leliana cried. He watched her throw the tent flaps open and duck inside. Zevran caught a glimpse of a pile of armor and a familiar pair of bare feet before the flaps fluttered shut.

"Poisoned, you say?" Zevran echoed. It was strange feeling this way; the last time he had felt so unsteady was after watching Taliesen slit Rinna's throat. _This is a dangerous sign, Zevran,_ he thought. _But not something to think about now._

A slender hand suddenly latched on to his wrist. Morrigan poked her head out of the tent, her eyes burning like a dragon's. "Get in here this moment, assassin," she hissed. "And pray that this isn't your doing, or Wynne's tent will be dyed with your blood."

Zevran let Morrigan haul him into the tent. He could only enter up to his shoulders, as the tent was barely big enough to accommodate all of its current inhabitants. Wynne had lit enough candles to provide a deal of illumination and warmth, and now there was no mistaking that something was very wrong with the Warden. Daen convulsed against Alistair's chest, feet scraping feebly at the ground and kicking Wynne's blanket into a crumpled mess. The human's arms were wrapped under Daen's armpits and over his chest in as much an effort to keep Daen upright as it was to keep him from standing. Daen clawed at Alistair's arms with one hand. The other was caught up in Leliana's white-knuckled grasp, the bard's hair glowing like an ember in the candlelight. The elf's head lolled on Alistair's shoulder, his face had the pallor of a corpse. The dark liquid Zevran had assumed was beer was not: it was blood, smeared across his chin and draining from his nose and into his mouth, and dripping from under his lids like tears. Wynne shoved a rag against Daen's nose as Zevran watched and began dabbing at his eyes with another, but blood continued to seep through with a relentless steadiness.

Alistair threw Morrigan a glance full of alarm. "Well, do something!" he cried. Wynne interrupted, clicking her tongue in annoyance. "Hold him _steady_, Alistair!" she barked, throwing a soaked rag to the side and ripping a new length from a mangled undershirt. "The bleeding isn't stopping. If I could just find the source, I could heal it! It's like he's bleeding from a thousand cuts. Morrigan!"

"'Twould be more illuminating to speak to someone with a more...specific knowledge of poisons first." Morrigan tugged Zevran further into the tent.

"Is this your doing, Zevran?" Alistair asked in a low voice. The dog growled as if on cue, conveying enough threat in its bared fangs to render a wiser elf speechless. Zevran had long known that the mabari was far more intelligent than the common watchdogs he was accustomed to dealing with in Antiva, but he could only hope the dog's intelligence meant he would be able to understand what he had to say next.

"I swear it is not; my oath to the Warden holds true. But I recognize the symptoms." Zevran squeezed past Morrigan and shook his wrist free of her hand, kneeling by the bedroll. "Morrigan, boil five stalks of elfroot in two pots with enough water to cover them and bring both here, and wrest whatever remains of the beer from the dwarf if you can. Wynne, we will need many more rags. Leliana, it is best that you leave. I am sorry." The witch and the bard left the tent without a word, and the sound of ripping cloth filled the air as Wynne reduced the shirt to a pile of strips. The dog whined while Zevran gently pinched Daen's chin and tilted the elf's head back so that he could look inside Daen's mouth. The line where his gums met his teeth were already beginning to show faint signs of bleeding. Zevran's chest twisted painfully as Daen gurgled and coughed, like someone who had just been stabbed in the lungs, and he released the Warden's chin immediately.

"Well, Zevran, out with it—what is it?" Wynne snapped impatiently.

"It's a Crow concoction, isn't it?" Alistair demanded. "I've never seen anything work so...dramatically."

"Yes, it is. But not one of mine," Zevran added hastily as the dog growled again. "I cannot use it without a great deal of caution, you see. The humans call it elfbane; it only affects elves, as the name suggests. Particularly popular when one's mark is an elven mage, as they tend to be difficult to deal with using normal tactics, and they are typically the only ones worth the trouble of brewing the poison. Quite the tedious process. Ah, Alistair, it is a good idea to keep Daen upright like that for now. He wants to stand because he believes it will help him breathe, but the effort to stand alone will only make the blood come out faster. Best to keep him as still as possible."

"He stopped breathing when we put him on his back," Alistair explained. He attempted to wipe away a fresh line of blood leaking from Daen's closed eyes. "What is with all of the bleeding? How much longer does he have?"

"The bleeding is one of the nasty effects of the poison. The elfroot will help, but without it? Not much longer."

"What, is he going to bleed to death or something?" Alistair's voice cracked like an adolescent's on "bleed." The human suddenly looked much younger in Zevran's eyes, all gawky and so uncertain of himself that he could not bring himself to take on much responsibility. "Maker! How long does it take to boil water?"

"Bleeding to death is one of the options," Zevran said slowly. "The alternative essentially involves drowning in one's own blood. The poison is causing parts of his membranes to bleed—that is what you are seeing from his eyes and nose. Eventually it will be coming from his mouth as well, and that is a general sign that he has not long to live. For now, keeping him still and upright will stave off the possibility of his lungs filling with blood. Unfortunately, the more time passes, the more likely that he will bleed to death instead. The elfroot helps to slow the bleeding, but it cannot stop it. And it is as you have already discovered, Wynne, magic cannot cure a poison such as this."

"But is there a cure?" Wynne asked urgently.

"I...there is. But it will not be an easy thing to retrieve."

The tent flap rustled as Morrigan re-entered, a steaming pot in each hand and the beer barrel sloshing at her feet. She kicked the barrel a few inches in and waved a pungent-smelling pot under Zevran's nose. "Well, what now, assassin?"

Zevran plucked a few strips of rags from Wynne's pile and dipped them into one of the pots in turn. His gloves were not enough to protect him from the boiled water, but he had endured worse. He juggled the rags until they had cooled slightly, and took a pot from Morrigan. "Wynne, open his mouth for me and tilt his head back." After Wynne had done so, Zevran wrung the liquid from one of the rags directly into Daen's open mouth. The Warden coughed, but his breaths loosened. "Tilt him forward slightly—he must breathe the steam from the pot."

Alistair leaned forward with an arm across Daen's chest to keep the elf from slumping over; Wynne reached out and lay a hand on Daen's forehead, pushing his sweat-drenched bangs from his forehead and keeping his head from falling to his chest. Zevran brought the pot under Daen's face and patted the elf's twitching leg. "Can you hear me, _amora_?" he asked softly. "Breathe as deeply as you can. Through the mouth is fine." He couldn't resist and leaned closer, voice pitched lower to brush Daen's ears. "Just as you like it."

"Sweet Maker, do you never stop?" Alistair exclaimed, too close to have missed Zevran's addendum. Wynne shot a glance of confused disapproval at the apparently unprovoked outburst. The look Alistair gave Zevran in the meantime would have shamed a Chantry mother. Zevran had done it deliberately, of course, and he spared a quick peek to enjoy the ripples of disgust and abject horror washing over Alistair's face. He had no idea if Alistair had broached Zevran to Daen the way Wynne had (with both of them, as a matter of fact, that implacable mage), but the young human had certainly been making free with the disapproving morning stares of late. _Such a Fereldan! He will do fine as the king of prudes._

Zevran's eyes darted back to Daen's face in the next moment, hoping to see a reaction there. There was none—not unless one were to count the sudden puckering of Daen's brow as a wet groan clamored up his throat. It could have been a remnant of a laugh, but it was not what Zevran was hoping to see; at any other time, the comment would have at least earned him a blush as scarlet as a fish's gill and with the wide-eyed, gape-jawed expression to match. Still, the leg beneath his hand seemed to shiver in response. The Warden did at least begin to breathe more steadily, despite the blood still dripping from his eyes and nose. The water bloomed with roses of blood, but the dripping slowed and then stopped long before the steam stopped rising from the pot. Zevran held the pot under Daen's face for a few more seconds before setting it to the side.

"He will need to remain propped up, but Alistair's height is a bit unnecessary now. We need something lower. Pillows, or perhaps some extra clothes."

"I don't have a pillow, but clothes...just a moment." Wynne turned and snatched up her knapsack. "I think I have a spare robe in here. It might not be thick enough..."

The dog barked suddenly and sat upright, his stubby tail wagging. He looked at Zevran, cocked his head to the side, and whined.

"Ah, I take it you are volunteering yourself, my slobbery friend? Very well. Alistair, to the side, if you please."

Morrigan stepped out of the tent to give Wynne and Alistair some maneuvering space. The dog settled himself into the spot Alistair previously occupied at the head of the bedroll, and Alistair gingerly lowered Daen so that the elf's head was pillowed comfortably on the dog's back while his torso rested at a gentle incline on the flank and rear paws. Soris twisted around to gaze at Daen's face and licked the Warden's neck hopefully. Daen smiled faintly and rested a hand on the dog's snout, but the movement was strained. His face relaxed into a restful unconsciousness in the next moment.

The blood had formed a crust that sealed Daen's lids shut; Zevran used a cloth to wipe it away, then placed another dampened rag across Daen's eyes.

"Hey, look, he isn't all white anymore," Alistair said with relief, leaning over Daen's face.

"We have the heat from the water to thank for that. It may not last." Wynne placed a restraining hand on Alistair's chest and pushed the Warden back. "Let him breathe, Alistair. He's had a close call. Will he be all right for now, Zevran?"

Zevran touched his fingers to Daen's pale cheek. Wynne was right; the warmth was all on the surface of the Warden's face, and he could feel it cooling already beneath his fingers. Daen turned his face into the touch so minutely it could have just been a tremble. "For now, yes. Someone should stay with him to change and refresh the compresses when they dry out, however, and there should be boiled elfroot water on hand at all times. He must alternate between breathing the steam and drinking the water every half or so. The elfroot will help to slow the bleeding, but it will only do so much."

"Good. Soris, stay with Daen and bark if anything changes. Alistair, Zevran—outside, if you please." Wynne scratched the dog briefly behind his ears and stepped out of the tent. Zevran picked up the blood-tinted pot of elfroot water and glanced back at Daen before leaving. He looked smaller than ever.

It was clear that the others had been waiting for them to emerge. "Well, are we down a Warden already?" Oghren demanded sourly. "And no Archdemon in sight. Figures."

"He's fine, for now." Wynne crossed her arms over her chest and leveled a steady gaze at Zevran. "The Crow attacks were supposed to stop, or so I thought Daen told me. How did this happen?"

Zevran hooked a foot over the butt of the beer barrel poking out of Wynne's tent and tipped it upright. "This, I would wager. Ignacio did only say that there would be no more _new_ contracts, no? What we have witnessed is the fruit of someone who had both a great deal of money and a contract on the Wardens before our Daen concluded his business with Ignacio."

"Loghain!" Alistair cursed. "How many did he hire besides you?"

"That, I would not know. It did not matter for my own bid, after all." Zevran looked at the grass, finding it difficult to meet anyone's eyes. "It is my fault. I should have suspected..."

Morrigan snorted. "Yes, yes, your regret is most helpful. The more pressing question in my mind is why Alistair is still standing beside us—surely if Loghain's hand is behind this, he would want to remove the presumed heir to the throne as well as the otherwise inconsequential elf?"

Alistair coughed and shifted his weight uncomfortably. It had only been a few days since Arl Eamon had revealed Alistair's heritage, and not all of the companions had accepted the news easily. Daen, for one, had been especially bitter at his brother Warden's secrecy, resulting in the two having one of their rare brawls. Alistair was well trained, but Daen was much faster; in the end, the former limped away on a twisted ankle, while the latter came out of it with two cracked ribs.

Zevran, meanwhile, had been sorely tempted to slip something into Alistair's tent that night—nothing the man couldn't handle, just a small trap at the bottom of his bedroll, or perhaps a mouse or two in his pack. If the two Wardens hadn't seemed to have forgotten about the fight the next day...

All things considered now, though, it was probably a good thing that he had resisted the temptation.

"Well, yes, that does seem a little strange, doesn't it?" Alistair muttered.

"I do not doubt that they will go after you next, my friend," Zevran said, letting the barrel fall back on its side. The responding slosh of its liquid contents only served to punctuate his statement. "Divide and conquer is not an uncommon Crow strategy—and, as my attempt demonstrated, it can be very frustrating to attack two Grey Wardens simultaneously. It was perhaps just chance that they found the opportunity to poison our elf Warden first, yes?"

"But what was it?" Leliana asked anxiously.

"Some sort of Crow poison that only affects elves," Wynne replied curtly. Her grey old eyes were locked on Zevran with a sternness he had not seen since she had last approached him to scold him about Daen. "As Zevran has said, it is very expensive to make, causes excessive bleeding, is highly useful in assassinating elven mages...and there _is_ a cure, is there not, Zevran?"

"You said you would have to retrieve it," Alistair interjected. "What did you mean? We can't just get the raw ingredients and have Morrigan make it?"

"I mean no offense to our formidable Morrigan, but I do not think she has the knowledge to do so. And, in any case, quite a few of the ingredients can only be found in specific places well outside of Ferelden. There is, for example, one very rare ingredient that only grows along the shores of the Free Marches. Traveling aside, there is a very real possibility we will spend days running up and down those shores just trying to find a single flower." Zevran shook his head. "The antidote is much more expensive and troublesome to make than the poison, and the time it will take to make it ourselves? It would be too late. We have but a day at most. The elfroot will begin to lose its effectiveness soon, and then it will be up to our Warden to fight the poison on his own."

"If only we hadn't already used the Ashes!" Alistair groaned. "I mean, not that it isn't great that Eamon's up and about, but all he was doing was sleeping and Daen's about to kick it right here."

"Helpful as always," Morrigan muttered.

"I don't see _you_ suggesting anything," Alistair shot back.

"But what are the chances that we will find the finished antidote here?" Leliana asked, interrupting Morrigan's frosty response.

"Better than anything else, particularly as there are Crows in Ferelden. The problem is which Crow to look for. Many of the elven Crows carry the antidote on them at all times once they can afford it—insurance, you understand, in case something or someone goes awry. Oghren, coincidentally, mentioned that he procured this barrel from an elf passing by Lake Calenhad, did he not?"

"Aye, I did. Ye think she was a Crow?" Oghren rubbed his beard. "There weren't anything suspicious about 'er. Had 'er whole family along for the ride. Outrunnin' the Blight, she said, an' unloadin' everything she could fer a few coins along the way. What kind o' Crow travels with two o' 'er own puggles an' the grandparents in tow?"

"A Crow does. This may make things slightly easier." Zevran's hands tingled in anticipation. "Here is what I propose. I shall find the Crow and see if I can talk the antidote out of her. She is our best and closest bet at the moment, and to be frank, if she does not have the antidote on her, there is very little hope for our Warden. They will be on the move; I must leave immediately."

"Hold on," Alistair objected. "I don't like this. How do we know you aren't just going to run off? It seems to me that it'd be a pretty good deal for you—half of your own contract's almost done, anyway."

Zevran frowned. "You wound me, Alistair. It has been many months. I thought it would be clear by now that I have no intention of completing the contract. There was a time limit on mine and it has long since expired. I am in breach, and the only remedy to that is my death. In any case, spending as long a time with the marks as I have is quite contrary to Crow training. We do not, how do you say, _caboodle_ with the marks for any longer than we must."

"I don't think that's the—" Alistair shook his head. "You know what, never mind. Not important. I'm still going with you. He's a Warden, for crying out loud. If there's a chance of a cure, I have to see it through."

Zevran shrugged negligently. Alistair was not as stupid and careless as he liked to portray himself, but there were times when his continued suspicion was intensely trying. Did he not realize that time was of the essence? "These Crows—they will have more poisons on them, I guarantee, and it will be difficult to deal with them without a certain degree of skill. And if I may, shall I remind you that the contract is most likely for two Grey Wardens, not just one elf? You and I may not always get along, Alistair, but I have no desire to see you turn purple and expire while your intestines leak from your nether regions."

"You're joking. You Crows actually have a poison that does that?" Alistair looked like he had just smelled sour milk. "That's sick."

"This is ridiculous. Decide something, and decide quickly. I'm putting more elfroot to boil." Wynne snatched the pot from Zevran. "Can't reuse something he's leaked into. We're going to need a lot more of these," she muttered under her breath as she stalked away.

Zevran was too focused on dealing with Alistair to pay much attention to Wynne. "With half of the Ferelden Grey Wardens bleeding his life out in the tent behind us, you are far too important to risk simply to satisfy your own mistrust. There will be plenty of time to learn of the Crows should you become king, but right now you are underestimating the training. Oghren, Sten, and Shale are all not suited for the speed and stealth that this mission will require—my apologies."

The qunari didn't even blink. "It is true. We are not."

Oghren belched. "Not that I'm agreein' with the qunari, but...I got the elf into this mess. It might be best if I stay out o' more trouble."

The golem merely shrugged. "The painted elf is wiser than I gave it credit for."

Zevran continued. "Short of the actual antidote, Wynne is best suited of all of us to care for Daen; he will not succumb so easily with her watching over him. The dog is doing his part already. This leaves Leliana and Morrigan."

"Most thrilling," Morrigan interjected dryly. "I shall join you if I must, but there is little I could offer by way of speed or stealth. 'Tis likely I am more useful here."

"Then I will go with you." Leliana stepped forward. "If it would put Alistair at ease, then I think I am most suited for the task at hand. I can risk the poison; I have had to deal with similar dangers in the past, and I am certainly not as valuable as Alistair."

"Very well." Zevran sighed. "We should leave now. Do not forget about the elfroot water. It is all that will help right now. And Wynne was correct about the pots—if he bleeds into them, it is best not to reuse them."

"Then I suppose the rest of us can at least procure more pottery." Alistair nodded. "All right, then, I guess. Get going. Leliana, I'm counting on you."

Zevran bowed sarcastically in the human's direction. Leliana bent and slung her bow over her shoulder, hesitated, and touched Zevran's elbow as he turned on his heel to depart. "Zevran. Do you not wish to see Daen before you go?" she whispered low into his ear. "There is a chance..."

Zevran almost nodded. Instinct. The wrong one. "No. It is not necessary. Let us be off."


	3. Part III

PART III

Leliana was tired of waiting. She pressed her mouth against Zevran's ear, breathing warmth into the whorls of its tapered length. "I could distract them. Take out the others, while you corner the mother." Zevran, crouched in the same position he had been for the past five minutes, moved his head slightly in acknowledgement.

At any other time, he would have been the one suggesting strategies, or at least the one whispering into somebody's ear. But he had momentarily forgotten that he was not alone. Leliana had been all but silent the entire way, and clearly, she had been learning—she had followed Zevran's lead without missing a beat from the camp to a crop of Tenvinter ruins on the eastern shores of Lake Calenhad, moving in his tracks with such ease that his mind had quickly turned away from wondering whether she could keep up with him to imagining what he would do to the elves once he caught up with them. Zevran could only guess that she had been observing him for some time. Her training as a bard in Orlais had helped, no doubt. She had fallen into talking in shorthand with minimum use of sibilants almost immediately, her voice pitched low so that it carried only to the ear it was intended for. Clearly, she had done this before.

There was a time when Zevran had been utterly intrigued by Leliana, particularly after their encounter with her former taskmistress. He still did not completely understand why she had put on the Chantry sister act before then, but he liked the changes, even if he no longer found her as irresistibly attractive as he had before. _Or at least not as attractive as Daen._

He put that thought aside. There were more pressing matters at hand.

The pair hid behind a cluster of broken stone columns, remains of a Tevinter structure that afforded them some cover from their prey. The prey in question had set up camp in the middle of what had once been an open-air circular building, perhaps something like a large stone version of the gazebos popular in Antiva for stargazing and romantic trysts. All of the columns in the circle were broken, the pieces that had once stacked so neatly together fallen to the ground below, but the most intact one was as tall as the lofty ceilings of Orzammar. Zevran couldn't imagine what the ancient Tevinters needed such giant gazebos for, but rather liked the idea that its size matched their own needs for starlit encounters. _One might fit an entire whorehouse and its customers within,_ he mused, amending: _With some flexibility. _

The merchant's covered wagon was anchored a scant fifty feet away, while the ox dozed free of its yoke just to the side of the wagon. Gathered around a flickering campfire were the merchant family Oghren had described: A middle-aged elven mother, telltale signs of mixed heritage displayed in the fine lines in her face; three elderly elves, skeletal hands clutching identical woolen cloaks about themselves; and a pair of very young children, one just toddling and the other no older than six, both crowned with a riot of chestnut curls, just like their mother. The older one looked pure elven, while the younger had the distinctive blurring in its features that suggested a mixed heritage. The mother was the only one awake, and she tended the crackling fire as though it was her third child, feeding it with a steady hand while the other absently tucked a spare blanket around her slumbering children's shoulders. No one would have even suspected that they were anything other than a tired family of merchants.

But that, after all, was the point.

The toddler was a little young for a prospective Crow, but the older child was the right age. Zevran himself remembered playing the roles the children currently filled as part of his testing. Children made excellent covers for assassination missions; until they had proven themselves worthy of becoming a Crow, they were mere investments the Crows had made, much like buying a particular poison for a specific mark. The rule was that the prospectives could be used for whatever the Crow needed them for, and that could mean anything from being a living shield to providing comfort to the more depraved Crows at night. The smart prospectives—like Zevran—quickly learned how to do other odd jobs to make themselves more valuable, such as setting traps, massages, or relaying messages. In most cases, they were the ones who lived.

As luck would have it that night, the full moon broke from the clouds at that very moment. Zevran cursed inwardly. A movement at his elbow caught his attention, and he glanced back to see Leliana tying a dark handkerchief over her hair, which shone a brilliant copper in the moonlight before it was obscured by the cloth. Zevran pulled a similar handkerchief from his belt and did the same for his own arrangement of wheat-gold locks, remembering as the cloth slid over his head how Daen had once admired his hair while they set up for camp.

* * *

_"Your hair is even nicer than a noble's," he remarked, pausing in sharpening his daggers._

_It had not been long since Zevran joined the group. He was already used to Daen's apparent non sequitur attempts at getting to know his companions, so he was not surprised. This comment, however, prompted an amused snort from Morrigan. _

_"'Tis no surprise," she said. "He spends two nobles' worth of time on it every morning."_

_Zevran ignored Morrigan's baiting, but was not above some fishing of his own. "Would you like to pet it? Feel free, please."_

_"No, no, that's quite all right. I've just never seen an elf with such nice hair. It's so even and shiny."_

_"And soft, too. The only soft thing I have on me!" Zevran tilted his head towards the elven Warden, inviting a touch. "I have been told that it feels like Orlesian silk. Several times, I might add. Quite significant, as everyone who said so only had the chance to say it that one time."_

_"Hah." Daen sheathed his daggers and extended a fingertip to brush at a strand of hair. His touch was so light that Zevran barely felt it. "It's like baby hair."_

_Zevran feigned an offended look through a gap in the veil of his hair, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. "_Baby_ hair, my dear Grey Warden? You wound me. If only you would let me show you how inaccurate that is." He straightened, flicking his hair away from his face with a deliberately effortless motion. "If you like, I could do something about that interesting nest on your head. Are those birds I see roosting in there?" Daen's hair was a lovely color, like sun-bleached tassels of cornsilk from root to tip, a shade rarely seen past a blond's adolescence. It accentuated the Warden's youthfulness, but it was as wild as a blightwolf, and doing a tremendous job at concealing what Zevran thought might be beautifully sculpted cheekbones._

_"Oh, no. I'm fine," Daen demurred, averting his eyes. _

_"Are you positive? It is no trouble, I assure you. Besides, I have yet to see what your lovely face truly looks like."_

_Daen shifted his weight, his eyes glued to the toes of his boots. Zevran grinned. Daen was an absolute terror around darkspawn and quite a few humans—and, well, anyone who made attempts on his life—but he dissolved into a little boy at the slightest suggestion. _Time to change tack._ "And one cannot help but wonder how you spot darkspawn with your hair hanging in your eyes like that."_

_"I...well, I guess it wouldn't hurt." Daen laughed nervously. "It's been hard to do anything with my hair since my mother died. Honestly, my dad and I have just been cutting our hair with the kitchen shears. And it's been hard to remember to do even that much ever since I joined the Grey Wardens. You know...darkspawn," he said with a wry grin. _

_"My dear Warden, darkspawn maintain their sorry strands of hair more carefully than you do your entire head," Zevran replied. "Let me get my scissors, and then we shall see what emerges from that head of yours, hmm?"_

_Unfortunately, the others were listening, and Zevran ended up spending the entire evening trimming everyone's hair except Morrigan's and Sten's. Oghren would not let him near his beard, but requested "a little off the top." Even the dog presented himself for a grooming, a dirty paddle-shaped brush of dubious origin clenched between his drooling jaws. _

_Zevran deliberately took a bit more time with Daen's hair than he did with the others, insisting on working through each tangle instead of simply cutting them all out. And even though it took only a single restless night to render him completely disheveled, the shyly pleased way that the Warden ran his hand through his neatly shaped hair after the cut had been more than worth it. _

_Zevran continued to trim Daen's hair every time he noticed it getting shaggy afterwards, making it such a constant ritual that Daen didn't even turn around when he noticed Zevran settling behind him with a pair of scissors in his hand. _

_"I appreciate it, Zevran, but my hair doesn't grow that quickly," he finally said at one point. There was a pause. Then, suspiciously: "I'm not going to wake up bald one day, am I?"_

_"Never! You may not have much competition, but it is still my sacred duty to ensure that you are the best-looking Warden in all of Ferelden!" Zevran teased, over an offended "he-ey!" from Alistair. "And a beautiful head of hair suits you much better than either a bald dome or that nug's den you called a hairstyle, no?"_

_Daen sent Zevran the close-lipped smile that meant he was doing his best not to burst out laughing. "I can just hear it now. After we slay the Archdemon, there will be but one sentence on all of Ferelden's lips: '_Who does his hair_...?'" _

_And then the laughter erupted, tenor notes of mirth bubbling out of him until he was bent in half, his pale hair no longer long enough to hide the flush of pleasure that rose in his cheeks and scaled ambitious heights to touch the tips of his slender ears. _

* * *

_That had certainly been a plus. Especially after I talked him into a massage._

Zevran shook his head, suddenly conscious of the present. The headcovers he and Leliana had donned only removed the eye-catching gleam their hair would have created under the blinding light of the moon, and did nothing for the rest of them. Both of them were still clad in armor more appropriate for fighting in open combat, which meant well-oiled leather and sturdy metalwork capable of catching and throwing light leagues away with just the slightest movement. Outside of the armor, he would not catch the light as much with his swarthy Antivan complexion, but Leliana was another matter. Her fair skin made her practically luminescent. It was a flattering look for her, no doubt, but a detrimental one in their current circumstances.

Zevran, loathe to lose his armor when Crows were involved, bent and scooped up a handful of dirt, rubbing it into the rings and steel grommets of his armor in an attempt to dull their gleam. Leliana frowned and shook her head slightly—the earth was too dry and chalky here to make much of a difference. She beckoned Zevran toward her and whispered again into his ear: "Wait for moon to go down?"

Zevran shook his head as well. "Might take too long," he muttered back.

Leliana blinked in agreement. "Down," she murmured. Nimble fingers worked at his armor, and Zevran lowered himself to his belly so that the grass caught and muffled the sound of the leather piece dropping away from him. "Take top off. Grab dirt." Zevran obediently shrugged his pale cotton undershirt over his head, then pulled up a double handful of the dry stuff.

A flask of water appeared in her hands next, and she upended it into the dirt Zevran extended towards her, the clear liquid sparkling like diamonds as it fell through the air before disappearing in the darkness between the elf's hands. Leliana pulled up handfuls of grass and added that and a few more clumps of earth to the mix, then capped the flask and tucked it away while Zevran gently rubbed his hands together, creating a mud between them.

"Quickly," Leliana whispered, extending her arms. She had removed her own armor as well, and was only clad in her smallclothes and a thickly woven undershirt that skimmed the top of her thighs. All were the same color as the handkerchief covering her head. Zevran thought it was an oddly utilitarian choice for an Orlesian, much less one who loved color as much as Leliana did, but it suited their current purposes. She had also adjusted her dagger holster so that it lay below her shirt but within easy reach through the bottom, hiding the shine of steel from the moon's prying eyes.

"You _have_ done this before," Zevran muttered, giving voice to his earlier diagnosis. Clearly, she did not intend on allowing him to take on the Crow encampment alone. He took a bit of the mud in his hands and smeared it over the ivory skin of Leliana's arm.

Leliana grinned, her teeth aglow like pearls. "Bard," she replied by way of explanation, scooping up her own fingerful of mud.

Soon, they had covered Leliana's exposed skin in a thin layer of mud, dulling her down so that she would blend in well enough as long as she kept low to the earth. The moon was still bright in the sky when they finished, and there would be no clouds to cover it any time soon—every single one had fled, as if Lady Luna herself had insisted on watching what would transpire unobscured. She was in full glory tonight, perhaps her way of taking vengeance upon Zevran's refusal to admire her.

Zevran peered around the corner of the column again to check on their marks. The mother was nodding off, but some mysterious sense of hers seemed to wake her whenever the fire required feeding. Otherwise, there was no sign that they had been noticed.

He turned to Leliana. "Go around. Wait for me to move, then take mother from behind. Get her away from fire," he murmured. Leliana blinked in agreement again, the whites of her eyes bright against the drying mud on her face. She was lighter on her feet, and would be able to cover the distance more quietly than Zevran's heavier tread could. She handed her bow to Zevran, and then balanced herself on the balls of her feet and the tips of her fingers, creeping away as silently as a cat on the prowl. Zevran took a moment to appreciate her rounded hindquarters before they disappeared around another broken column. Daen didn't have much to appreciate in that area besides bones and a few scars.

He found himself apologizing mentally. _Not that they aren't _nice_ bones, _amora_. And the scars add character._

Zevran hooked Leliana's bow crosswise over his torso before creeping forward as well, moving directly from the column to insinuate himself below the covered wagon. Once safely out of sight, he removed the bow and placed it on the grass beside him. The wagon's wooden underbelly sagged with the weight of whatever wares the Crows hawked as part of their cover—most likely more barrels of spirits, and probably more than a few laced with various poisons as a precaution, although he doubted any more were poisoned with elfbane. There must have already been a fortune's worth in the one barrel Oghren received.

To his left, the heavy hooves of the ox stood as immovable as mountains, the bovine deep in its own dreams. It likely had as much a chance of waking as Daen did after eating his fill of Alistair's rabbit stew. Zevran never could understand why the Warden liked the rabbit stew so much—it tasted just like the rest of Alistair's stews to him—but Daen practically inhaled it every time, saying that it was much better than his cousin's rabbit stew.

_Don't eat the rabbit in Denerim. Noted._

Zevran scowled. Nagale_! _he reprimanded himself sharply. _You are doing everything except focusing on the task at hand. _No doubt Leliana was on the verge of circling back to see what was taking him so long. Everything here had a way of reminding him of Daen, somehow. _You want to think of the Warden? Fine, think of this._ He forced the last glimpse he had had of Daen's face before departing into his mind, and felt his head clear in an instant.

_Keep that focus, or else you will never see that face again._

His hand went to one of the stilettos he kept hidden in the sides of his boots and slid it out with his fingertips. He treated the matched pair daily with a basic Crow poison meant to stun and confuse—a single stab would leave a full-grown human reeling long enough for Zevran to take him down to size, either for total disabling or later interrogation. The stilettos had been with him since his first days as a trainee, and it had been so long that he almost thought of them as a married couple. He was not in the habit of naming his weapons as the Fereldens seemed to love doing at the drop of a hat—and they were already so much a part of him that names were simply unnecessary—but they had yet to let him down. He had no idea how effective the poison would be on an ox nearly five times the weight of the average man, but even if all it did was give the animal a little indigestion, it was worth chancing.

He slithered forward on his bare belly and peered out from under the ledge of the wagon. A glance upward easily revealed a thick, throbbing vein in the ox's rear upper thigh. He studied the vein briefly, estimating the depth of the vein and thickness of the skin, and how quickly and heavily he would need to strike. The angle would make things difficult; the pressure of what depended on a successful blow made things interesting.

_But when have I backed down from a challenge, hmm?_

Zevran struck at an upward angle, the narrow point of the stiletto sinking squarely into the knotted blue cord under the animal's skin.

It was a beautiful strike, and the results were instantaneous. The ox jumped, bellowing like an Anderfel horn, the sudden clenching of its muscles around the tip of the stiletto nearly wrenching the narrow blade from Zevran's grasp. Zevran tightened his grip and withdrew the blade—it wouldn't do to have the ox go bumbling away with an obvious dagger sticking from its haunches—and rolled out from under the wagon on the side opposite from the campfire. He heard sleepy cries of confusion while the ox's hooves stomped and kicked at the ground. The animal screamed and bucked, every strike of its hooves like muffled thunder on the ground. Perhaps the poison had exacerbated the pain of the original wound.

Zevran caught up Leliana's bow, grabbed the lip of the wagon, and swung himself into the bed of the wagon itself, slipping the stiletto back into his boot. He quickly found a narrow tear in the canvas of the canopy, perfectly placed for assessing the damage outside and finding the next target. Leliana would be moving soon; the others would need to be dealt with. Outside, the ox had stopped thrashing about and lay still on the ground, legs extended at stiff angles; one of the elder elves was at its head, stroking a twitching ear. The toddler was sitting wide-eyed and wreathed in a blanket by the fire, one grubby hand stuck into its mouth and the other wound through its curls. _Strange to leave the shield just sitting there._ Of the others, there was strangely no sign. That would mean an ambush, unless he ambushed them first.

_Take out the elder fast; the child is just collateral to them. _Zevran snagged Leliana's bow with one hand and caught up a handful of arrows from the quiver with the other. With his boots hooked on a filled barrel large enough to hide Oghren, armor included, inside—and full of enough alcohol to keep the dwarf happy for a few days, it felt like—he leaned back out of the opening of the wagon bed, nocked the bow, and caught the gray-haired elf in his sights. Her skin was like parchment, creased with the signs of a hard life. The disguise was really quite good, and it couldn't be anything but; there were no Crows as old as she looked.

The arrow was set loose with a hiss of broken air. Leliana might be able to outshoot him any day, but he could not miss at this distance. The elf collapsed over the neck of the ox, Leliana's distinctive striped fletching trembling in her neck. He released his hold on the barrel immediately and went tumbling out of the wagon, running with bent knees towards the corpse and the toddler. The child was in the same pose it had been in when he last saw it, and it seemed to have not completely registered what had happened to the elder elf. He scooped it up in his arms and turned on his toes, pausing only long enough to check that the elder elf was dead, before running back to the cover of the wagon.

Something the size of his knuckle went whistling by his ear, hitting a spoke on a wagon wheel with a sharp _thunk_ and falling to the ground. Zevran ignored the near miss and hoisted the toddler into the back of the wagon, tucking it between two barrels, before ducking back behind the wagon. He fell to a crouch behind a wheel and peered out cautiously, daggers drawn.

There was still no sign of the other two elders and the older child, but he saw a thin pair of legs kicking on the opposite side of the fire. They suddenly seemed to disappear behind a broken column—all in total silence. If Zevran hadn't caught his one glimpse of the abduction, he would have missed it completely. He gave a feral smile. He would join Leliana for the interrogation shortly.

A child's thin wail pierced the air. "_Ou te mett_ _mamen_?" it cried. "_Mamen_!"

_Orlesian? Not Antivan?_ The lilting language was unmistakable—Leliana spoke with the same slightly nasal accent. _Something is not completely right here._

The voice's owner appeared—the older child, a strip of leather clutched in one fist and a rock held tight in the other. Its wide-eyed gaze was locked in the direction Leliana had spirited the mother away to, and it wavered on the spot, unsure if it should follow. Zevran frowned—he would have liked to avoid hurting the children, but Orlesian or no, the child's openness meant a trap.

_Ah, well. You would not have made it as a Crow if you allowed yourself to be used as bait in such a way, child. Consider this a favor._

Zevran had an arrow nocked and the child in his sights when he felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. He rolled to the side instinctively, dodging the first strike and barely blocking the second with a dagger. He lashed out at his hooded attacker with his boots and rolled again, backwards and out of the cover of the wagon's bulk.

_And now things get interesting._

It was one of the old ones—her hood had fallen as she followed Zevran into the light of the fire, and her face was wild with a pinched desperation. _Not really the face of a Crow._ For the second time that night, Zevran felt a tingle in his scalp that meant that something was wrong.

But if she didn't look like a Crow, she certainly fought well enough to be one. She crouched low with a dexterity belying her age, and Zevran only had just enough warning to skip backwards before she lashed out with a rapier from below her cloak. He barely registered its tip slicing through his abdomen, leaving a horizontal cat-scratch of a mark. Zevran fell back on one of his favorite strategies—taunting the opponent—and slipped around to the opposite side of the campfire, keeping its flickering light between them.

"A very fancy weapon," he called out, eyes narrowed and arm raised below his nose to prevent the fire's glow from destroying his night vision. "Do not tell me that that is all you brought to this fight, _nona_!"

The elderly elf attempted to circle around the fire towards him; he crab-walked to the opposite side again. She hissed, the slender length of her rapier flashing. "You have chosen the wrong elves to rob, _corsa_," she called out, the Orlesian overtone unmistakable.

"And you have chosen the wrong Warden to poison. Where is the Crow who paid you to sell your wares here?"

The rapid blinking that followed his question suggested confusion. "Poison? _Non_. We are not poisoners." She lowered the tip of her rapier. "We are but merchants from Orlais. Darkspawn pushed us here from the Imperial Highway."

"Oh?" He could not stop smiling. "Amusing."

"Please believe me, serah. There is no need for us to fight." The elf held her hands towards him, palms open.

"Zevran, behind you!"

Leliana's warning gave him enough time to throw himself to the side. The fire flared impossibly bright. The world died away into a haze of black.

* * *

_Note on Antivan and Orlesian: From what I can tell, Antivan is based on a mix of Italian and Spanish and I assume __Orlesian is basically French_. Some of the words used in Beak_ (e.g._ nagale_, _brasca_, and more notably _amora_) are actually from the game, but the rest, both Antivan and Orlesian, is me making stuff up.__ I apologize if they don't quite match DA universe linguistics. I tweaked things so that the languages don't correspond exactly to IRL standard Italian/Spanish or French, but if you have a background in them, the similarities will be pretty obvious. [Modified for clarification 11/28/2012. -K]_

___But I can't get fancy with grammar and structure, it just doesn't work._

_Antivan:  
_Nona = grandmother

_Orelsian:  
_Corsa = brigand, bandit (or pirate...which Zev clearly is, arrr)_  
_Ou te mett mamen? = Where are you taking mother?

_Until next time. -K_


	4. Part IV

PART IV

Zevran had not been acting himself since they left the camp, his moments of lucidity interspersed with periods of silent contemplation. It was noticeable enough that Leliana began wondering if she should try to knock some sense into him. No one would mistake the moonstruck Antivan for a member of the infamously deadly Crows tonight, or at least not to her bardic eye. It worried her.

Of course, she and the rest of the camp had long since known that their two elves were each other's tentmates. She did not know when it started, but it was a little hard to miss, what with the nighttime noises and the concurrent disappearing at every quiet moment—not to mention how Daen fidgeted around him. And the haircuts! A cute picture they painted together, to be sure, but it was far too obvious of an excuse to literally get his hands on the Warden.

But until tonight, she had assumed that the feelings between the two flowed like a river, with Daen at the source and Zevran wandering at the mouth near the sea. Daen was lovesick within a month. Zevran remained exactly the same. It was to be expected; he was a Crow, after all. And he was too handsome—as bronzed as a pirate and with the muscles and manners to match. Not to mention the daily preening, and those heavy-lidded eyes that always seemed to be watching what lay beneath your clothes. And far, far too confident—the type of lothario who would have made Jacq'm Casanouva blush with his sweet words and honeyed gaze. Leliana nearly fell for him herself in the beginning, until she realized that he was systematically working his charm on the entire group. In point of fact, the Antivan had not ended at charm—he made passes at everybody but the dog. And somehow, dear, sweet little Daen was the only one he succeeded with. Despite Morrigan's opinions, Leliana had her doubts about Alistair being the stupidest in the group. Or, at the very least, she thought she knew who was the most desperate.

Zevran was a persistent thing, too, and would not be dissuaded from pursuing the elven Warden, even after Leliana deliberately used a tree he was leaning against as target practice. He simply turned his head ever so slowly away from the arrow quivering right in front of his nose and gave her a measured look and a slow grin that made her wish she had set her mark on his head instead. The haircuts started the next day. Ah, that had been infuriating. Leliana was not above some playful flirtation from time to time, but she did not like the level Zevran took his teasing to, particularly when Daen was hanging on to his every word and crooked grin. She did not think it was her business to bother Daen over his choice in lovers like Wynne and Alistair did—love was a beautiful thing to have, while one had it—but she worried about Zevran breaking Daen's heart, so soon after Morrigan.

And yet, she had torn her gaze from Daen's face and looked up to see Zevran as pale as his complexion could allow, his eyes unsmiling and terrified as Morrigan dragged him into Wynne's tent. That, and his impatience in finding the Crows, and the strangely impulsive way he moved—her minstrel side was a-quiver with what all of that meant, even if she found it difficult to believe herself.

_Oh, what am I doing? Yes, he is as bad as a nug in a sack of sweets, and he needs you to focus, Leliana. He is doing enough mooning about for the both of you tonight._

She had moved the instant she heard the ox scream. The mother elf bolted upright right in front of her, and although she put up a fight, it had been easy enough to stuff the end of her shirt into the elf's mouth and drag the smaller woman away from the campfire. Leliana kicked the children to the side to keep them from following, but the older child had turned out to be armed with a slingshot of sorts. She snatched it from the boy's hands and threw it as far as she could. The boy turned and chased after it, allowing her to concentrate on spiriting the mother into the shadows.

Marjolaine's bow sang and a body fell in the corner of her eye. _Good. Keep them distracted, Zevran._ She glanced up briefly, as long as she dared to with the mother writhing between her arms.

And saw Zevran grabbing the toddler and running recklessly back to the wagon.

_What? Why is he bothering with the child? Maker, I hope the others don't have his back in their sights._

A rock went by his head, and she winced at the near miss. The boy had gotten his paws back on his slingshot. It was time for her to disappear before he tried to rescue his mother again.

She knocked the elf sharply on the side of her head and fell back behind a column as the body went limp. _That will keep her out of the way for now,_ she thought, and left the elf mother tucked out of sight.

Leliana emerged just in time to see a shadow skulking by the wagon raise its hands high in the air. The fire flared in response—directly into Zevran's face. The Antivan collapsed to the ground, uncharacteristically graceless and uncontrolled, and Leliana's heart leaped into her throat.

"Zevran?" she cried. The blond head lifted weakly, hand pressed over eye. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a pair of cloaked shadows approach on silent feet, glinting steel brandished in their hands.

"Ah, _merd_!" she cursed, wishing she had her bow. She pulled her own daggers free and threw them without thinking twice. One met a shadow's chest with a hollow _thunk _and rebounded off of hidden armor; the elf still tumbled to the ground, clutching her chest and gasping for air. But the other flew straight past the second and buried itself in the side of the wagon, and her intended target rushed onward.

Luck was not with her tonight. She had missed the mage. The blade he held crackled with energy along its silver length, and she rushed forward, moving to meet him entirely on instinct.

She favored the distance from the fight that archery gave her now, but she remembered the days when she had thirsted to meet the enemy face to face, and the tricks Marjolaine had taught her then. Her hand dipped into her belt pouch and found a single square-shaped vial of magebane. The liquid practically glowed with the corrupted amounts of lyrium swirling in the mix. She uncorked the bottle with her teeth and covered the opening with her thumb, ducking and stepping into the mage's first reckless swing of his dagger with a single smooth motion.

It was a pretty trick he was using, but he was clearly no warrior. He could not keep his balance, and she used his stumble forward to tuck herself into the fold of his arm, collapsing it to bring his knife hand closer to her. When it was within reach, she enfolded his smaller hand in hers, locking his wrist and forcing his hand open by pressing her fingers into the base of his thumb. The blade fell and she whipped her head backwards, breaking his nose with a satisfying _crunch_.

The elf screamed and collapsed, and as his mouth opened, she caught up a handful of hair at the back of his head, wrenched his head back, and emptied the entire bottle of magebane inside, aiming for the back of his throat. His scream turned into a gurgling cry as the liquid leaked into him, and his eyes rolled to the back of his head as he breathed his last and dropped straight to the ground.

It was an unconventional use of magebane—most were trained to coat their weapons with the stuff—but magebane swallowed was even deadlier and quicker to act than magebane ingested through simple cuts alone, short of a single blow straight to the mage's heart. Surface cuts would weaken a mage enough over time to break their concentration. Outright ingestion would kill them immediately, although this was not well known outside of Val Royeaux, and such an administration was harder to implement successfully without a great deal of luck and skill. Still, it was a useful poison against mages, if extremely hard to find; Leliana could only count herself lucky that she had thought to inquire when they last visited Varathorn.

She tried to pick up the mage's dropped blade and felt her hair stand on end when she was only inches from touching it. One of the rocks wedged beneath a wagon wheel to keep it in place caught her eye instead, and she grabbed up the sizeable chunk and turned to face the mage's friend only just in time.

A silver flash arced towards her head, and Leliana barely managed to throw herself to the side before it touched her, narrowly missing the fire as she tucked and rolled aside. She felt something warm begin to drip down the side of her face and reached up to feel a cut at her temple. Gritting her teeth, she put her feet beneath her and tracked the cloaked figure as it leaped over the fire and closed in on her.

The elf was much more agile than Leliana would have expected from someone her age, and seemed to favor a fighting style that brought her closer to the ground. Without her armor, Leliana's legs were unguarded, and she danced backwards to avoid the lightning-fast jabs the elf took at her. She had not seen this style of fighting since she had left Val Royeaux. Many of the bards favored it, particularly the elven bards who concentrated their skills in covert spying—one never knew when one would get caught, after all, and a precise strike could drop a human without a single sound.

To see it being used here could only mean one thing.

« It's rare to see an Orlesian in Ferelden these days, » she said in Orlesian, and was pleased to see the woman hesitate.

« She didn't tell me you were Orlesian, too, » the woman replied, drawing back. « It pains me to have to kill one of my countrywomen, but I've taken the money already. »

« Just tell me what this is about, » Leliana said soothingly, circling slowly back towards Zevran. « _Who_ didn't tell you that I was Orlesian? »

« The one who hired me—the woman you took. » The elf shook her head. « No, we can speak no longer. I'm sorry, but unless you're willing to leave and swear to speak of this to no one, you must die. »

« You've hurt a friend of mine. Unless _you're_ willing to give me the antidote, I'm afraid that I can't leave. »

« Then I'm sorry. »

The elf came low and fast, and Leliana flung the rock. It hit the woman at her temple with the sound of bone and flesh crumbling in the face of its unyielding mass, and she fell to the ground in silence, completely still.

Leliana straightened and left the corpse, taking the rapier as she went by and heading for Zevran. The man's was crouched upright, his head in his hands. He looked up quickly at the sound of her approaching feet and relaxed visibly when he saw it was her.

"What happened?" he asked groggily.

"The mage," she replied succinctly. "You were a little sloppy back there."

"I was not expecting a mage," Zevran replied defensively.

She raised an eyebrow. "That is not all that I was referring to. But we must speak of that later. The last elf I fought was Orlesian. She said she was hired by the other elf—the mother."

Zevran nodded. "Where did you put her?"

Leliana turned towards the column she had secreted the mother behind. On her way there, she passed by the elderly elf's corpse. Something about the way the elf's face lay caused her to pause, and she stopped, staring down at the stiffening body with a frown.

"What is wrong?" Zevran appeared at her elbow and looked down at the woman himself. His brow furrowed. "Her face...it is a disguise."

The thrown rock had dislodged the paper-thin mask that had been artfully applied over the dead elf's entire visage. Leliana bent and peeled it away as if it was a second skin and held the slightly torn piece stretched between her hands. Beneath the artificial wrinkles, the elf was only a few years older than Leliana herself; her face bore a scar that arced from her left brow to her chin, and no doubt no one would have believed her a simple merchant with that combined with the battleworn lines of her face and the corded muscles in her neck.

"This is not like anything the Crows use."

"That is because this is not a Crow disguise," Leliana replied.

"Very observant," a high female voice said.

The pair looked up sharply. The mother elf stood before them, her eyes sharp, her fingers touching her chin. When she brought her fingers away, the entire lower half of her face seemed to fall with it, peeling away in the same manner Leliana had just removed the dead elf's face. Her skin beneath was smooth, her mouth youthful and her lips rounded, and Leliana narrowed her eyes and cast the mask she held to the ground.

The elf discarded the remaining shreds of her face with a single flick of her fingers. Beneath the mask, she looked like she was still in her teens—younger even than Daen, who looked young already. She was particularly beautiful for an elf, and looked exactly like the playthings Leliana was accustomed to seeing throughout the Orlesian court. Her skin was fashionably fair and unnatural in its flawlessness. With another swift motion, she pushed the graying bundle of brown hair from her head to reveal a full head of gossamer locks with the color and sheen of a chestnut's shell, wound into an immaculate bun. She looked at Leliana with undisguised disdain, and Leliana suddenly felt very large and awkward standing before the delicate girl's frame.

"That was quite the disguise," Leliana said slowly. "Perfectly done."

The elf smiled thinly. "Thank you." Her Orlesian origin was unmistakable, but there was also a Fereldan accent to the way she shaped her words. It was too carefully done to be anything but trained into her. Some court lords found it amusing to shape their elven pets into as close an emulation of a human noblewoman as possible, but it would be strange to find one such creature outside of Orlais. She continued. "I shall be sure to inform the Empress's artisans, sister."

And then she knew what they faced.

Not Crows.

Shadows.

* * *

_Notes__: Going forward, the guillemets («») indicate spoken Orlesian._

_Jacq'm Cassanouva is a thinly veiled reference to Giacomo Casanova._

_Zevran honestly did creep me out on my first playthrough. That's where Leliana's coming from with her description of him._

_The Shadows of the Empire are discussed in a single Codex entry in DA:O. Leliana will talk about them a little more (or at least what I imagine them to be) in the next chapter. I wonder if they'll actually show up in DA3? They seem to be more of a nod towards That Other BioWare Game._

_Finally, if you are interested, I've been doing work on a sequel/companion story to _Beak_, which I am publishing concurrently. It's called _Climbing on Clouds_ and is told from Daen's perspective. Far from being a spoiler at how the poisoning turns out in_ Beak_, it's sort of__ my own attempt at psychologically exploring the city elf caste. It's also my first attempt at writing an actual Romance (with the capital R!) and is rated M for both violence and sexual content, so do not read it if you are not M enough. Same warnings from_ Beak_ apply to_ Clouds_, as it's still male/male. For those who are technically M enough, if the first chapter isn't to your taste, thanks for giving it a shot and no offense taken for not reading further! But otherwise, please check it out and read it alongside _Beak_! Feedback is always appreciated._

_Long note. Sorry about that. Thank you for reading._

_Until next time. -K_


	5. Part V

PART V

"You are a Shadow," Leliana hissed, and fell back into Orlesian without realizing it. « I didn't know your leashes extended as far as Ferelden. »

She felt Zevran tense beneath her arm. "You speak of the Shadows of the Empire?" he murmured. "They are real?"

The elf inclined her head at a sarcastic angle. "Oh, yes, we are as real as you are. We are merely better at keeping ourselves, mm..._com' sa dir_—ah, secret. We are poor shadows if we caw and strut and flock to shiny things as crows do, no?"

Zevran bristled, but Leliana interceded quickly. « You're a long way from home, Shadow. What brings you to Ferelden? »

"Let us speak in Fereldan for the benefit of the Antivan, sister. You asked what brings us to Ferelden, and the answer is the Grey Wardens, of course. Such as they are." She smiled. "Or were."

"They are alive," Zevran snapped. "Both of them. Where did you get the poison from? Only the Crow masters know the recipe."

The Shadow tittered. It was a silly noise that grated at Leliana's ears. "Well. Then I suppose you know where we got it from, no?"

Zevran growled. "Who are you working for?"

"Ah, Shadows work for but one thing alone. Surely even you heard the tales in that whorehouse you grew up in, _m'sieur_ Zevran of the House Arainai."

His amber eyes narrowed dangerously. "You are well informed, little Shadow."

"It is our business to know our targets. That includes their friends."

Leliana put a calming hand on Zevran's back. "What she says is true. You could perhaps think of the Shadows as bards, but much more; they work exclusively for the Empire itself. They are sown thoroughly in every level of court politics in Val Royeaux, and bring balance where it is necessary in the Game—the, mm, the play of thrones in Orlais. Something like the Crows, but far more diffuse. One can safely assume they are present in Orlais, even in one's own house, but you never know who they are. It is good that they never move without an order from the throne—but that does not explain why they are here, in Ferelden." She turned and addressed the Shadow directly. « Tell me, why is the Empress so concerned with the Fereldan Wardens? »

« It's none of your business, sister. » The Shadow smiled, baring white teeth. « The Empire knows exactly who _you_ are. You should count yourself lucky that you're not our concern right now. »

Leliana swallowed as a chill ran down her spine. Zevran grabbed her wrist. "What, Leliana? What did she say?" he demanded. "Does the Shadow have the antidote or not?"

She shook her head, as much to clear it as to answer his question. "I...I am asking, Zevran. Please be patient."

"Daen is dying and you wish me to be patient. _Qe brillanta_."

"He is my friend, too, Zevran."

"He is—" Zevran closed his mouth with an audible _click_ and set his jaw at a stubborn angle.

Leliana would have laughed at his expression if she could have. "We must talk later," she said, and turned to the Shadow, who had been observing their exchange with an artfully amused tilt in her eyes. "And do you have the antidote?"

"Mm." The elf tapped her teeth with her finger, a thoughtful expression on her face. "I know where it may be found. But our instructions were to finish the Wardens in Ferelden, not to cure them. So, no, I cannot help you with the antidote. But it was a nice try." She polished a fingernail with her thumb and smiled.

It was Leliana's turn to fix the Shadow with narrowed eyes. _She didn't say that she does _not_ have it—she is playing with us,_ she realized. Why_ would the Shadows be in Ferelden? It makes no sense. The ones we killed seemed barely trained. Nor do Shadows simply leave Val Royeaux. For the Empire to target one of the few people capable of ending the Blight—it just makes no sense, unless..._

"You are not here on behalf of the throne," she said slowly. "You are working alone. You have been bought out—hired. Like a Crow. But by whom? And for what reason?"

The Shadow's smile didn't change, but her eyes hardened. She shifted her weight almost imperceptibly so that she stood balanced on one leg, the other angled behind her and her arms crossed over her chest. "That is an interesting conclusion to draw, sister."

Leliana crossed her arms as well and met the Shadow's leonine gaze squarely, saying nothing. The two women stood in their respective postures, staring at each other in silence. Zevran held his breath without realizing it, and let it go in a slow whistle of air.

"I am sure you realize that what you have done is in direct contradiction to your employ as a Shadow," Leliana purred. The threat in her voice was clear.

"And what might you do about it?" The Shadow raised her chin in arrogant defiance. "You are far from Orlais and the throne, sister. And there is nothing keeping me from killing you here, so far away as you are."

"I invite you to try. I know your sort. You have some training, yes, but it is in poisoning and glamours. Alone, you are no match for either me or a Crow."

"_Mamen_," the boy whispered, tucking his hand around the Shadow's knee and leaning into her leg. His other hand gripped her cloak, gathering folds of it into his little chest.

"Shh, Marsel. It will be all right."

"How old are you, child?" Leliana asked the boy. He glanced up at his mother as if asking for permission before holding up four fingers. "Have you heard of the great wizard Sketch?"

The boy squeaked and the Shadow's back stiffened slightly. "The wizard Sketch is merely a bedtime story. I have sung the songs often myself."

"Oh, no. He is very real. We traveled together for quite some time, as you would know if your employer had thought fit to inform you. I do not expect he thought you would live past your first attempt, however." Leliana smiled sweetly. "Sketch is great fodder for stories, you see, and I bring no credit to my profession if I do not have stories to tell. There are a few exaggerations, but I can assure you, you do not want to make an enemy of my friend Sketch. He can be very...creative when his friends are hurt. I was there when he lost a good friend of his, in a torture room where we had been imprisoned. I must say, Sketch made better use of the torture devices than the guards did themselves. But that was part of his attraction, I suppose."

"And how is this supposed to frighten me?"

"Ah, well, you see, Sketch and I were very..._fond_ of each other. He gave this ring to me before we parted ways." Leliana pulled a glove off and lifted her hand. There was a simple gold ring sparkling on her index finger that Zevran had never seen before, and a cat's smile played across her full lips as she displayed it. "He said that he made it himself, and that it was a link between us—something that would let him feel what I felt, while it would let me do the same for him. I suppose it is magic of some sort. We feel each other perhaps every fortnight, and hear what each other is thinking. Now, the last time we met through the ring, he was in Orlais—Val Royeaux, to be exact, visiting the Chantry. The boy always talked about going to Val Royeaux to sit through the entire Chant, and I suppose that is what he was doing. He was enjoying himself quite a bit, as I recall, and feeling very much at peace." She peered at the Shadow. "Now, what do you suppose he will do when he next feels me through the ring?"

The Shadow's eyes were locked on the ring circling Leliana's finger, dancing through the air as she gestured with her tale.

"Perhaps he will wreak havoc in Val Royeaux, you are thinking. Unlikely, I must say, as he knows how much I love my beautiful city. Ah, but there are other possibilities—if he chooses to stay, he could tell the empress herself that one of her own Shadows has abased herself to the level of a mere assassin. Or perhaps he may come here, to find me—I am sure that he will have gotten a good image of you, or at least the children. Perhaps both? Hmm, but as I said, he is creative."

The boy tightened his grip on the Shadow's cloak, his eyes wide in the flickering firelight.

Leliana smiled kindly down at him. "Ah, Sketch does love to play with children."

"Enough." The Shadow slipped a hand across the boy's hair with the same gentle motion she had used while minding the fire as he slept. "What do you want?"

"The antidote, if you please."

"Take it." She lifted the hem of her cloak and pulled a slender glass rod, no longer than her smallest finger, from the fold at the edge.

Zevran stepped forward immediately and took the object from her as she extended it towards them. He examined it in his palm. It was a glass vial, with three tiny black pellets stacked neatly one on top of the other inside. He glanced at Leliana and nodded.

"_Mersi_, _ma seur_." Leliana inclined her head. "I realize it was a difficult decision for you."

The Shadow barked a laugh. "It was not difficult. I was generally informed of your past, sister. The money was good, but I escaped Val Royeaux to make a better life for my children." The Shadow jerked her head towards Zevran in a motion that could have been interpreted as a nod of thanks. "You did not have to rescue my littlest one as you did, _m'sieur_. You have my gratitude."

"They are both your children?" Leliana asked, surprised. "I have difficulty telling how old elves are, but you do not seem old enough to be a mother of two."

The Shadow's lips curved into a smirk. "I am an elf, and the role the Game chose for me was one of the few available to my kind. It also required that I make myself...available at unfortunate moments." She caressed her son's hair again. "This one I had when I was new to the Shadows. I was fourteen."

"The role chosen for you?" Zevran inquired. "I do not understand."

"Ah, the Shadows are not so different from you Crows. Many of us are elves, because we are the ones who may hide in plain sight under the noses of all the lords and ladies, in their kitchens, the stables, the laundries...their beds." Her mouth smiled, but her eyes did not. "But you Crows bid for your contracts. We cannot do that much. We play the parts we were given in the Game until we are called upon to act. But as we never know when we may be needed, we cannot leave our roles once they are entered into. It is how things are done in Orlais. Still, it is better than living in the alienage in Val Royeaux."

"And yet, here you are."

"I had no choice. I received word it was time for Marsel to train. In a few more years, it would have been Hel." Steel gathered in her eyes. "I was approached with a proposition that would get me well away from the Shadows and Val Royeaux. I accepted. The Game has taken much away from me, but this they will not. My children are mine. I bore them on my own. The Shadows will not have them."

"Very well. I can understand your decision," Leliana said soothingly. "But what I do not understand is why your employer targets the Wardens. The poison Zevran described, it seems to be a very well-guarded and expensive secret even among the Crows."

"There are...certain major players in the Game who are not happy with the empress. Some of these players have access to a house of Crows, and may have even utilized their services a few times in the Game itself. Depending on the rumors you listen to, you may come to believe that Empress Celene plans to align with Ferelden in a way that will elevate the dog lords to equal status with the citizens of Orlais. As you can imagine, this is a particularly distasteful prospect to those lords and ladies who remember the days before Celene's reign." The Shadow shrugged. "I cannot say more, but I would advise you to take care in Val Royeaux in the coming years. The balance of the Game is shifting."

"But can we expect any more attempts in the future?" Zevran asked.

"Oh, surely. The Wardens are at the center of a storm, _m'sieur_, and many unwelcome eyes are on them. A watchful eye is required, no more—which would include not sending an already soggy dwarf to purchase their spirits. All that I can say with great certainty is that you will not have to expect any more attempts from me."

"Well, it is a start," he snorted. "Hopefully we will not see your kind again. Tonight has not been a pleasant night."

The Shadow chuckled. "We have brothers and sisters observing the Ferelden thrones, too. You are likely to meet one soon, if your Wardens continue on to Denerim. Pass my greetings on to her, if you please. Her duties in Ferelden have been too great for her to come home, and I miss her dearly. Although, perhaps with the state of the dog lord throne nowadays, she may have reason to leave her mistress' side soon enough." Her slim hands beckoned to her son. "Come, darling. Let us get your sister. It is time for us to go."

"Is it wise to travel in the open with two children?" Leliana blurted. "The Blight is spreading. Perhaps you could come with us, at least until we reach Denerim; there is no safer way to travel in these times than with Grey Wardens."

Zevran snorted again. "If we still have any."

The Shadow laughed outright as she collected the toddler from the wagon bed. She lifted it easily and rested it on one narrow hip. The child curled its little arms around her slender neck and nestled its head of curls below her chin, its eyes drifting shut into an expression of peaceful bliss.

"I am touched, sister, but I do not think your Wardens will take kindly to having their poisoner travel among them."

"Daen might surprise you." Leliana let a smile touch her lips as she glanced at Zevran. "He allows the assassin to travel with us, after all."

"Mm. He allows more than just that, no?" the Shadow purred, and winked an azure eye at Zevran. He glowered back at her. "How sweet it would be to hear songs about them some day, sister. But for now, it is time for you and I to part ways. I have my ways of avoiding the darkspawn, do not fear. I thank you for your worry on behalf of my children, but I myself do not deserve it." She inclined her head. "I wish you luck with your Warden. If you hurry, he may still be saved—and I hope, for the Antivan's sake, that that is still possible."

"One moment," Zevran said suddenly. "It seems unfair to continue referring to you as 'the Shadow' when you are not one." Leliana looked at him in surprise. "Just as I no longer hold allegiance to House Arainai."

The two elves locked eyes for a brief moment, and it seemed as though they had finally understood one another. The Shadow gave a small smile—shy, uncertain, and the first genuine smile Leliana had seen on her face. "My name is Nicolet. Formerly of the Shadows, but among them I live no more. Should we meet again, 'Coe' will do. Fare well, sister and assassin."

"_Ou voyu nis_, _mamen_?" the boy asked, his face bright with adoration as he slipped his hand into the Shadow's and looked up at her.

Coe smiled down at him, the light in her eyes dimming the moon's as she wrapped the wings of her cloak about his shoulders. "We go where we go, _p'tit coeur_. The world is our journey, and we are our home. We need nothing more, no?"

The moon slid behind clouds as the trio turned to go, and they seemed to melt into shadow with a single step. A single ray of moonlight pierced its grey veil in the next heartbeat, but its pale fingers touched nothing but grass and the canvas of an abandoned wagon. They were gone.

"A very neat trick," Zevran remarked, removing his headcover with a deft motion. He rolled the precious bottle into the dark cloth and tucked the bundle safely into his belt pouch.

"Ah, well, they are called the Shadows for a reason."

"I was referring to your storytelling about the wizard."

"Mm, not one of my better performances, but fairly decent, no? Daen gave me the ring a long time ago—nothing special, he just thought I would like it. I had it in my belt and slipped it on while I took my glove off."

"And who is this great wizard Sketch?"

"An old friend of mine," she replied breezily. "I borrowed his name to make a hero for a few of my ballads once, and it was just luck that those little tunes became very popular throughout Orlais and some parts of Ferelden. Sketch has become something of a good luck charm for me. And his name has never failed to earn me quite a bit of coin when I needed it! I am sure he has profited likewise. A good reputation is a valuable thing to have."

He nodded brusquely. "Agreed. But we should return to the camp. The sooner, the better."

* * *

_Orlesian__: Behold, my elementary extrapolations of high school French!  
_Com' sa dir = "How do you say it"

M'sieur = sir, mister

Mamen = mother

Mersi, ma seur = "Thank you, sister"

Ou voyu nis, mamen? = "Where are we going, mother?" _[slight alteration to avoid an embarrassing similarity to adjective for "naked"-hindsight's 20/20? -K, 12/01/2012]_

P'tit coeur = lit. "little heart" (endearment)

_Antivan__:  
_Qe brillanta = that's incredibly astute of you (sarcastic)

_I should reiterate that I haven't read any of the DA books beyond the DA Wiki entries and some interesting excerpts about Orlesian masks from _Asunder_, so I apologize if I got some elements—particularly the state of political affairs in Orlais—completely wrong._

_Poor Sketch._

_Until next time. -K_


	6. Part VI

PART VI

Zevran would later realize that, at some point in the journey back to the others, he stopped paying attention to how he and Leliana got back. He remembered Leliana shouting about rocks and low tree branches; but, other than that, all he truly remembered was the moment he laid eyes on the peaks and folds of canvas draped over skeletal frames, like a flock of geese tucked away at rest.

He was not one to pray to the Maker. But he felt safe in invoking Andraste, whose ashes he could scarcely believe were real and could have perhaps solved everything if Daen hadn't already wasted his precious pinch on that _putto_ arl of Alistair's. If Andraste truly listened by the Maker's side, she would understand.

He pushed faces and questions aside, ducking straight into the tent and leaving Leliana to deal with them. Morrigan, apparently taking her turn at the Warden's side, looked up in surprise at Zevran's entrance. She held a length of cloth in her hands, in the middle of dipping it into a steaming mug of water. A medley of empty pots, cups, pans, and saucers were piled high near the back of Wynne's tent; the pungent odor of boiled elfroot mixed with sweat and dog pinched at his nose, all but grabbing him by his nostrils and forcing him to look downward.

Daen had always had a harsh, malnourished look to him, not much improved despite how ravenously he ate at every meal, but his body had at least filled and become a bit more sinewy with the constant walking and fighting. Those changes may as well have never happened. Daen's ashen skin was nearly translucent, and the bones in his face pressed upward like the frame of a tent beneath its coverings. His eyes were open, but dilated to such a degree that Zevran was sure he was incapable of seeing anything. Soris' flanks were stained a pale red, a testament to the limitations of elfroot. The faithful mabari lay in the same position he had been in when Zevran left. Zevran had no doubt that Soris had simply not moved at all.

Morrigan half-rose as Zevran stepped forward, her normally baleful eyes now rimmed with the red of sleepless worry. She said something, a question in her voice. Zevran nodded automatically without hearing. He could not look away from Daen.

In the corner of his eye, he saw his hands remove the glass vial from his beltpouch, the hard black pellets within clinking against the walls of the container with the sound of pins falling to the floor. He was moving through a dream, real and yet not; the glow of the remaining candles was too bright, washing everything in the tent in a yellowed haze. It reminded him of the Fade, where everything had seemed too bright and real to be anything but, until Daen had appeared in the middle of a Crow training room and whispered that it was a dream. And suddenly, it had seemed as if it could never have been anything but.

Zevran dropped to his knees and lifted Daen's head with one hand at the base of his skull. Morrigan must have noticed his eyebrows furrow at the sight of Daen's parched lips. "'Tis more difficult to give him water the more the time passes," she said. "If you have any ideas how to get the medicine into him, 'twould be nice to hear."

Zevran nodded again. "Where is the drinking water?"

Morrigan passed him a dented tin cup that Zevran recognized as Sten's, filled halfway with clear water. He raised it to his lips and inhaled the bitter green notes of elfroot as he took up a mouthful and passed the cup back to Morrigan. The elfroot nearly numbed his tongue—it must have been steeping for too long, and it was no wonder Daen did not want to drink any more.

"Oh please, not this," Morrigan groaned. "I'll step outside, shall I?" She stood up and left the tent.

Zevran barely noticed her shadow pass across his face on her way out. He tipped one of the pills into Daen's mouth and covered Daen's lips with his before the smaller elf could spit it out. His lips were rough and strange against Zevran's, and as hot as a lit candle. It was not the first time they had touched in this way, but it was not something they did frequently. Kissing was of course not a foreign concept to Zevran, but it was a tool that he had previously reserved for convincing particularly difficult marks of his affections. It had never seemed right to touch Daen in that way. And he had other parts of his body that Zevran was more than satisfied to press his mouth to.

Zevran lifted his head cautiously, and Daen coughed and water and a black pellet dribbled out of the corner of his mouth. "_Brasca_!" Zevran cursed. "You are not making this easier, _amora_." He carefully set Daen's head back down on Soris's flank and spent a fruitless and impatient second searching for the fallen pill. Giving up, he reached across Daen's body and plucked up the tin Morrigan had handed him earlier.

"Do not do that again," he directed to the blank-eyed Warden, not caring whether he could hear him or not. Zevran took up another mouthful of water, tipped the second pellet into Daen's mouth, and replaced his lips over Daen's.

Daen mumbled something that might have been a protest, and Zevran pressed him closer, sealing the distance between them. He finally felt Daen's throat finally contract beneath him, but he did not move for a few seconds to ensure that the antidote was gone.

When he raised his head again, Daen's eyes were closed and his face slack. His breathing seemed to be easier, and it was only after he had heard a few steady inhalations that he relaxed.

The antidote would take some time to undo the harm to Daen's body, but he dared to hope that he had made it in time. And if he had not, there was nothing more to do. Zevran exhaled, holding the Warden between his hands before shaking his head and laying the pale elf back down again.

Soris licked Zevran's hand and whined. Zevran scratched him behind his crooked ears absently and stood. "You have been a good boy, haven't you, my friend? Peace, now, it will soon all be over."

The assassin turned and left the tent without looking back.

* * *

_Note:  
__Updates will be less frequent due to starting a new job. There will probably be an update from _Beak_ and/or _Clouds_ depending on circumstances on Sundays. __Thanks for sticking with me._

_Until next time. -K_


	7. Part VII

_Warning__: There is a bit more intimacy in this portion than is usual in_ Beak_, but nothing inappropriate for the rating._

* * *

PART VII

_Daen was able to move as silently as Leliana by now, but he never used stealth when approaching Zevran. The sound of a twig snapping underfoot and the pause by Zevran's tent flap, allowing the campfire to cast his shadow across the canvas, were all deliberate signals of his presence. Zevran himself had been hovering in a state of half sleep, waiting for those signs, and he opened his eyes at the first _crack_. _

_"Come to attack me in my sleep? How intriguing," he called out, smiling and propping himself up on his elbows._

_The tent flap rustled and a pale head poked in, his hair white beneath the moonlight spilling behind him. _

_ "I didn't want to wake you up if you were already asleep. Room for one more?" he asked, voice pitched low. _

_ "You are always welcome, _amora_. As long as Soris stays outside."_

_ Daen chuckled as he slipped inside. "Don't worry, he's learned his lesson. He's by the fire. Dreaming of chasing rabbits this time, I think." He let the tent flap fall behind him. "Not enough growling to be hunting darkspawn." The two fell into darkness, but Zevran knew where the other was almost by heart. Daen stepped forward without hesitation, leather creaking as he freed himself of buckles and boots, shucking gloves from his hands and leaving everything in a careful stack by the side of the entrance. Zevran's eyes had adjusted back to darkness by then, and he watched the slim shadow stretch with a sigh before it slunk forward, dropping to hands and knees and half-crawling, half-falling straight into Zevran's arms. Zevran dropped back on his bedroll with the Warden enveloping him like a blanket. Daen's skin was chilled from sitting in the cool night air, and Zevran tucked his covers over Daen's shoulders and clasped his hands around his waist. _

_His hair smelled of moonlight and metal, and perhaps a little bit like flowers—yes, it was Andraste's Grace. Leliana must have been on watch with him. Daen kept bringing her stalks of the little Fereldan flower, and she had them tucked all about her bedroll and clothes. She was almost permanently perfumed with the stuff as a result. _

_ "Nothing exciting tonight?" Zevran murmured, teasingly blowing a ruff of feather-soft hair upwards. Daen shivered with the breath of air._

_ "Not even one measly genlock. It's nearly a full moon; the darkspawn don't like roaming about when it's this bright out." Daen had apparently decided to take revenge by muttering his reply directly into Zevran's neck, exactly along the line where the jugular throbbed. It was not a place Zevran was accustomed to allowing lingering touches—mostly because doing so could just as easily mean finding a knife stuck there in the next moment—and he fought a rising feeling of vulnerability. But the hum of Daen's voice reverberating through his skin and the heat gathering at that point alone also quickened Zevran's pulse, and he wondered if Daen could feel it through his lips._

_ "Hmm. Well, I do know something that doesn't mind coming out under full moons. And it is quite eager to make the rest of tonight very exciting."_

_ Daen groaned into the same point on Zevran's neck. "You never do stop, do you?" _

_He hiccupped in surprise as Zevran suddenly rolled him over onto his back, easily shifting the smaller elf with one hand supporting him from below so that Daen landed safely on the bedroll. The blanket fell to the side in the process, and Zevran ignored its departure in favor of balancing himself on one forearm, his free hand tracing the veins and curves in Daen's own neck, one knee deliberately just grazing the inside of Daen's upper thigh._

"_Such cruelty, my dear Warden. How can I stop before such a vision of beauty as yourself?"_

_Zevran could barely see Daen's face, hovering as close as he was to his neck, but he could feel the sardonic look with which Daen was eyeing him. That perfect juxtaposition of hard eyes above, half-grin below often drifted across the Warden's face, a sure sign that he had just heard something so fantastical that it was impossible to believe._

_"Hah. I bet you say that to all the gir—_Zev_!" Zevran's name came out of him in a squeak of expelled air. "Slow down, would you?"_

_Zevran smiled sweetly, knowing well that Daen was unable to see it, and let his head drift back up from where it had slid below while his hand took its place. He did move slower, always willing to accommodate the Warden, and the deliberately languid motions made Daen squirm exactly as he intended them to._

_"Um. Maybe...not...that slow." Daen's heart had begun to race beneath Zevran's fingertips._

_"But I am only slowing down as you commanded me to, no?" Zevran purred into Daen's ear. The knee that had been at rest against Daen's inner thigh began to shift ever so slowly, maintaining the finest bit of contact while tracing a path up and under. "You did not like fast, so slow it is...yes?"_

_"Y-ye...Andraste's arse!" Daen's back had just begun to arch and his hips stiffen in an unmistakable response when he suddenly threw his arms around Zevran neck, dragging him down to the bedroll with all of his strength. Zevran lost his balance and collapsed in surprise, barely managing to catch himself before he landed with his full weight on Daen's torso._

_"Umph. Such danger! I nearly squished you flatter than the cookies Soris hid under Sten's bedroll!" Zevran chided. "What a tragedy that would have been!"_

_Daen laughed softly. "You wouldn't have hurt me."_

_"Ha! Just so, _gatto_."_

_"And you were being a little distracting."_

_"Oh? Distracting from what? Did you wish to speak of something?" Zevran bent his head as he spoke to nuzzle at the cup of Daen's collarbone._

_"Mm...er, yes. I did."_

_Zevran shrugged and rolled himself on his side, resting his head on his hand with Daen nestled in the curve of his body. Daen's hand searched behind Zevran's back before finding the forgotten blanket and pulling it back over the two of them. It fit over them just as poorly as the bedroll did beneath—both were intended for only one body—but it made squeezing two together much more interesting._

_"Is it so important? Then speak."_

_"You aren't mad, are you?"_

_"Not mad, _amora_, merely suddenly...bored."_

_Daen sighed. "I'll get on with it, then. Do you remember the human we ran across a few weeks ago, on Bann Loren's lands?"_

_"Ah, of course. The old one on the run. Alistair said he was with your army at Ostagar, as I recall. It is a pity he could not flee as fast from the guards as he did from the darkspawn, hmm?"_

_"Hah. Well, Alistair and I were talking about what he told us today. The human—he was very close to the king. Alistair thinks that there might be things at Ostagar that could be presented at the Landsmeet Arl Eamon is calling."_

_"So you wish to go back?" Zevran raised a brow. "Does that seem wise, _amora_?"_

_"We know it'll be dangerous. But Alistair says that the darkspawn should have thinned out by now, and if we keep to a smaller party, it'll be easier to get past most of whatever's still there. You know we'll need all the help we can get at the Landsmeet, seeing as Loghain has been doing his best to paint us as depraved as darkspawn." Daen paused. "But to be honest, I don't know if Alistair is ready for it."_

Forget Alistair. _Out loud, all he said was "are _you_?" _

_Zevran had picked up enough from campfire stories here and there to know how close a call it had been for the two Grey Wardens at Ostagar. Leliana was constantly needling them for details, surely writing a ballad in her head. He hadn't completely believed the part about the dragon at first—at least not until they met her herself, deep in the Korcari Wilds—but how else could one explain how a junior Warden and a skinny elven initiate, trapped at the very top of a breached tower, survived the darkspawn horde when no one else with them did? _

_He draped his free arm over the Warden's chest, his hand coming to a rest on the area between Daen's right shoulder and below his collarbone. He could feel the ridge of the scar that lurked there even with Daen's shirt between them. It was the worst of the half dozen round, puckered scars on his body, likely thanks to a poisoned darkspawn bolt. _

_Wynne knew how to heal and barely leave a scar, but not all healers were of her caliber, and the two Wardens had not had her by their side at Ostagar. Morrigan had said, only once, that Daen had been lucky that she and her mother had been there, and left it at that. Daen, not Alistair. The implication was clear, even if Daen had laughed it off._

_Daen's hand slid over Zevran's, fingertips curling underneath and shielding him from the scar below. "I'm not the one to worry about. I still want to gut Loghain, but that isn't going to change any time soon. Alistair lost a lot more than I did that day, and the way he keeps thinking about it...he still hurts. His family died there. I'm not sure if going back to Ostagar will give him the closure he needs, or make him worse."_

_"Then don't take him."_

_"He wants to go. And I can't rightly deny him, if it's what he wants to do."_

_"You do not know how Alistair will react there, and you also do not know what awaits you. Usually it does more good to decrease unpredictability than it does to increase it, no? But then again, we Crows are a careful bunch."_

_"Except when hunting Wardens, apparently."_

_"What can I say? You are that good."_

_"Hah." Daen tilted his head, the tip of his nose brushing against Zevran's shoulder. "Look, Alistair has deferred to me in everything we've done so far. He's been that way ever since Ostagar. It isn't right."_

_"Hmm. So you wish to let him take the lead now? And here I thought the only time you liked following was when you were with me."_

_"Stop for a moment, would you? Look, if there's even a chance that going back will help him get over it and grow a backbone..." Daen clapped a hand to his eyes. "No, that's uncharitable. You heard Arl Eamon. Alistair might be the king someday. And I can't let him just...toddle into Denerim the way he is now, all meek and...broken. He doesn't know the humans there the way I do. The ones he'll be dealing with are all the same. If they even think they can lord over him, they will. Either he doesn't become king at all, or he'll become a king responding to their every whim."_

_"Then he doesn't become king."_

_"No." Daen's eyes drifted in the dim. "Now that I know he can...he has to. It can't be anyone else."_

_"What is this about, Daen?" Zevran drew his hand back from Daen's chest, letting his voice sharpen. "When did you become so interested in politics? Surely the boundaries of Warden brotherhood do not extend so far as landing Alistair on the throne. And if I recall, the last time Ferelden Wardens intended a coup, it ended with no Wardens in Ferelden at all and their leader a 200-year-old possessed corpse, did it not?"_

_"Thanks for the reminder," Daen said dryly. "Worried that I'll end up like Levi's charmer of a however-many-greats grandmother?"_

_"Worried that you are about to bite off more than you can chew, _gatto_." Zevran sat up, legs poised between sitting and standing. He rested a forearm on a raised knee._

_Even though he was not looking at Daen, he could sense that the Warden was smiling. "You know my mouth can handle quite a bit."_

_At any other time, Zevran would have laughed. All he could manage now was a grumpy snort. "Oh, so I must stop for a moment but you may keep going? Such cruelty."_

_Daen encircled Zevran's shoulders with both arms. "Come on. We've played with crowns before. Shall I refer you to our friend King Harrowmont?"_

_"That whole business with the dwarves is precisely what I am talking about. You should not have interfered with the throne succession then, and you should not be interfering now. The dwarves would have worked it out on their own eventually—"_

_"And they would have been delighted to open trade with the new Archdemon king of Ferelden, I'm sure—"_

_"And _we_ all almost died more times than I care to count on that...needle hunt the dwarves sent us on, not in the least because the needle herself decided to thread us through a maze rigged with dwarven deathtraps like fish through a chute." Zevran felt Daen's arms tighten around him and tried to soften his tone. "You are asking for trouble with this game of yours,_ amora_, and you know it. But the Blight is one thing. What I do not know is why you are willing to entertain trouble this time. How is Alistair worth it?"_

_Daen was silent, and time condensed into the breaths that passed between them._

_"I grew up hating the king," Daen finally said. "I never saw him and I had no idea what he was like, but I hated him. Whoever he was, however happy or unhappy the humans were with him, I hated him." _

_"That must have been quite a first meeting at Ostagar."_

_"Oh, it was. If Duncan hadn't been there to smooth things over...well, I realized King Cailan was not a bad man, but it didn't make him a good king. No good king could let the alienage be the way it is, right under his nose. Not with would-be lords strolling through and soaking the _vhenedhal_ in piss and excrement. Not with children dying from plague, my cousins selling their pride, parents starving to death because they chose to feed their kids instead, or...just letting their kids starve, or worse, instead. Death an idle sword away and plagues every spring, rainwater and melting ice dragging the sewer down on our heads—my father is the healthiest of us all, and he still got sick whenever the snow went away. I'd sit by his side every time wondering if he'd just seen his last snowfall, and then end up sick with relief when it wasn't. And my mother...enough of us died the way she did to make almost everyone scared to death of humans." _

_"But not you, surely?"_

_"No! I...I was..." His voice shook. "Hah. Stupid," he muttered, more to himself than to Zevran. He let out a quick breath of air, as if trying to expel a memory. "How could I _not_ be afraid, the way they...treated me—us—the way she died? She was always so brave, and proud...Dad said it was because her mother was Dalish. And then, when Shianni..."_

_Zevran remained quiet, silently inviting the Warden to continue. He still would not say much about how he joined the Grey Wardens, although he spoke often of his family, and particularly of his cousin Shianni. _

_Daen seemed to gather himself and resumed speaking. "It was like seeing my mother die all over again. I was so angry, I couldn't think about how scared I was. I was...so stupid. I put the whole alienage in danger of a purge. So I had to pay the price, and hope that would be enough to save them." He shook his head. "That's the way it's always been. We're trying to survive together, because no one ever escapes, not without consequences. Our only heritage is years upon years of fear and resentment. There is nothing new in our lives, no fresh starts, no hope; we all die the way we were born, and we're born knowing exactly how we will die. It's made us...too resigned to be angry, too angry to be resigned. _Miserable_. It's our bread and our poison. It's killing us."_

_Zevran rubbed Daen's forearm absently, buying time. He had a line of scars there, where gloves had not protected him from a badly disarmed spring trap, and Zevran let himself get lost in the way their edged network appeared and disappeared beneath his fingers. Finally: "Piss-soaked all around, and you still defied your elders to climb the _vhenedhal_? It is good that my imagination does not boast a sense of smell."_

_Daen chuckled. "It was the sacredness just as much as it was fear that I'd come down with lockjaw or the runs. I just had to be careful. My mother was the one who first encouraged me to go up there; it was the best place to be, especially whenever the humans came. If I didn't make it up fast enough...but that's a different story. The thing is, there has never been a king willing to change all of that. But Alistair is different. He isn't _just_ a good person; he's honorable, and brave, and he has a sense of duty but he isn't foolhardy. And he has...so much light about him."_

_"As do you."_

_There was the look again. "Nice," he drawled. "But I can't be king. Alistair's the king Ferelden _needs_, now and when the Blight is over. He wasn't raised to expect things, and he's been fighting all his life for others—he just hasn't realized that he can fight for himself, too. I need him to be ready to do that before the Landsmeet. And he needs to see the alienage." He smiled into Zevran's shoulder, briefly lipping at a scar there, one so old that it had faded into a pale crescent on Zevran's burnished skin. "He'll probably be the first king since the _vhenedhal_'s planting to actually stand below it."_

_"This is...quite the scheme." Zevran stroked a finger along the nape of Daen's neck and was pleased when the younger elf shivered in response. "I know you have achieved much in your young life, _amora_, but not all institutions are ready to change the way you hope they will. Oh, they are willing enough to play along for now, while the Blight is on, but what you intend extends far beyond the reaches of the Blight. Humans love their power, and elves are convenient for maintaining that. We are beautiful, and scattered, and fractured...and we can fight, but we never fight back. We are cowards. It is no wonder the Dalish leave us where we are."_

_ "We are a broken people. Not cowards." He turned his nose into Zevran's shoulder and inhaled. "You need to meet Shianni and Soris—but especially Shianni. You'd like her." _

_Zevran recalled the vision that Daen had identified as Shianni, who had confronted them while they were looking for Andraste's Ashes. Daen had said that he regretted what had happened to her, but outside of the Gauntlet, he did not speak of what had actually happened. The time did not seem quite right to ask—and Zevran knew that there were secrets about himself that he would prefer to keep quiet from Daen for now, too._

_"This Shianni of yours, she is a redhead, no? And just as fiery as her cousin? She sounds lovely."_

_"Hah! You have no idea. She's the definition of spitfire. As hot as a poker and just as likely to stick you, too." Daen still managed to eye Zevran suspiciously, even despite Zevran's attempts to distract the Warden from his question. "Don't get any funny ideas."_

_"Never, my dear. But what about this Soris?"_

_"Another cousin. If everything went well, he's married—so, again, no funny ideas. And yes, I named the dog after him."_

_Zevran couldn't repress the smile. "How kind! Is it because he drools as much as our Soris does?"_

_"He's going to kill me when he finds out, but I couldn't stop myself! The name just worked."_

_They dissolved into laughed together. Daen folded against Zevran's chest, and he let himself fall back against the bedroll, cradling the Warden in his arms._

_"So, you and Alistair want to go to Ostagar, all part of your scheme to prime our poor, bumbling sap of a Warden for the throne. Fine. And is there anything else you wish to say, before I expire of non-excitement?"_

_"Hah!" Daen draped his body along the full length of Zevran's and rested his chin on his folded hands, a fox's grin in his eyes. "The boring part will be over soon, promise. We're going to tell the others tomorrow. One last thing, Zev—I don't think you should go."_

_"Pardon?" Zevran almost sat back up again, but was stopped by a restraining hand on his chest._

_"I knew you wouldn't take it well. I just wasn't sure if I should tell you tonight or let you find out when we left."_

_"Daen—"_

_"Thought you wanted things to get exciting?"_

_"Enough. Is this all you came by for tonight?"_

_"Yes and no. Tonight was _very_ boring, after all."_

_"_Gatto_. Then what is your reasoning for this one? It is not a plot to make me the Queen of Antiva, I hope." _

_"Of course not. You wouldn't fit any of her dresses."_

_"Just so." He fit Daen's face between his hands. "_Amora_, I do not care what Alistair says. You are going to be walking headlong into what is surely a darkspawn haven by now. You are good in battle, but I would feel much more comfortable letting you go with Alistair if I was with you as well."_

_"There. And that's why. We both know you aren't always the kindest to Alistair. He'll be pretty broken up going through Ostagar as is, and just one ill-timed remark from you—"_

_"I am capable of keeping my mouth shut when necessary, _grasi_."_

_"Nobody talks more than you do, Zev. Except maybe Leliana."_

_"And I suppose you are bringing her along?"_

_"I...I was hoping it would be just me and Alistair and Soris. I expect Wynne will want to come, too, since she was there as well, but I don't think it should be any more than that." He stroked Zevran's temple, tracing the well-traveled curves of the tattoos there even in the dark. "This is a purely selfish impulse of Alistair's and mine's. We have no right to risk exposing the rest of you to blight any more than we already have. You're right, the Deep Roads were too dangerous, and we were down there for too long. Please, just wait this time. You'll have your share of darkspawn soon enough. We all will."_

_Zevran frowned. "In light of that, perhaps it is time for you to start wearing something more substantial."_

_"I wouldn't be caught dead in the stuff Alistair clanks around in. He can barely move in it himself. There's a reason why he's the one the 'spawn go after first; he's a stuffed goose in that contraption."_

_"A helmet, then." _

_"Put on a hat before you catch the blight? Hah! Now you sound like Wynne. Helmets get in the way. _You_ know that. Besides, I'm not really in the habit of catching things with my head."_

_"You are referring to things other than exploding abominations, I assume."_

_"Technically I caught a doorframe that time. And I doubt there will be exploding abominations at Ostagar."_

_"Hmm."_

_Daen rose, hands on either side of Zevran's head and legs fully astride Zevran's hips. His silhouette cocked its head, the filtered rays of moonlight infusing his hair with a faint otherworldly halo. "Don't worry so much. Darkspawn is what the Wardens were made to handle. This is what we do."_

Ayana_, Zevran thought fondly. Out loud, he sighed. "I do not like it, but I will think on it tonight. And the next time you decide to take on a darkspawn army, do not expect to leave me behind."_

_"All right. That's all I can ask for."_

_Zevran began to play with the laces on Daen's pants. "And when you take Alistair to the alienage, you shall take me too, hmm?"_

_"I...yes, of course, if you want to. I was going to ask you anyway, as long as the plague is over by then. It's just...I know, not very exciting, but we'll have to keep you and me under wraps while we're there. Almost everyone in the alienage is related to me somehow, and that means they think everything I do is their business. They're probably not going to like the idea of...us."_

_"Their ignorance is their loss. Does this mean that there will be no touching the whole time? I can survive, for a day or two. But at night..."_

_"If we stay at my dad's, then yes, you'll have to behave at night, too."_

_"_Brasca_."_

_"But...will you come, when we go home? Back to the alienage, I mean. Even though we can't..."_

_"That last bit does not entirely _thrill_ me, per se, but yes. I wish to go. I did not grow up in an alienage, and I am curious how the elves there live."_

_Daen bent and touched his forehead to Zevran's. "I...thank you."_

_Zevran lifted Daen's head with a hand under his chin. "It is as I swore, _amora_. Without reservation."_


	8. Part VIII

PART VIII

She found him sitting by a pond well away from the campfire, idly tossing rocks into it. He would throw a stone in and watch the ripples dash across the surface of the water, staring blankly at them until the pool was mirror-clear and motionless again. And then he would toss another.

Zevran's hand was searching for another pebble to throw in when one was simply handed to him.

"What are you doing sulking here like a little boy, Zevran? You are the hero of the hour, no?" Leliana straightened as she laughed down at him, her eyes twinkling. She was a picture of relaxed ease, save for the pommel of a dagger at her belt. She had shed her armor again, and was clad in her undershirt and a slim pair of trousers. A towel was draped over her arm and she had one of her precious lumps of soap in her hand. She made them when she had the time, by sifting through the cold fire after breakfast for a certain color of ash and with help from a small bottle of yellow liquid and petals of Andraste's Grace.

"And what are you doing here, lovely Leliana? I would think the others would be pestering you for the story."

"Oh, they tried. But I insisted on a bath first. The grass is very itchy." She raised her hand, displaying the dried mud-and-grass camouflage they had rubbed on her. "You do not mind some company, I hope?"

"I can find somewhere else to, er, sulk." He stood.

"Please, stay. Let us chat, it will help me take my mind off of how cold the water surely is!" She set her towel down and began shedding clothes, folding each piece into a neat bundle as she removed them. "And you can keep an eye out for darkspawn. Or Oghren."

"As you wish." Zevran sat back down and plucked a stalk of grass, sticking its end into his mouth to give it something to do while Leliana undressed, removing even her smallclothes. It was hard not to watch her. She was deceptively lithe and efficiently muscled, built like the slim hunting dogs he had once seen in an illustrated book in the Wonders of Thedas that depicted ancient court life in the early history of Ferelden—perhaps an ancestor of the much sturdier mabari warhounds in favor today. Her movements were studied and graceful, and he had no doubt that she had seen much success in seduction during her life as a bard.

Leliana turned before dipping her bare foot into the water and caught him staring before he could look away. She arched a crimson brow at him before turning back to the water and slipping inside, barely disturbing the smooth surface beyond the faint ripples of her entry. "I can feel it when you stare at me, you know, Zevran," she called over her shoulder before fully disappearing below the surface.

Zevran grinned and waited for her to resurface before replying. "It is purely complimentary, my dear. You are a marvel to gaze upon, although I dare not touch."

"I am sure Daen will be much relieved to hear that when he wakes up," she returned.

Zevran winced inwardly. "A low blow."

"But much deserved." She bent her head forward, soaking her hair and scrubbing mud from it with brisk strokes of her hands. "How are you feeling, Zevran?"

"A bit winded from the return trip, but otherwise, I am feeling as fine as always. And much better with the scenery before me."

She sighed. "I had hoped you were more mature than that. Do I need to ask you to leave?"

"No, no. But do you expect me to look away with such beauty before me?"

"I suppose I cannot stop you, although if you insist on persisting, you may find yourself short a gold bar or two when you wake up tomorrow. Consequences, you understand."

He grinned and averted his eyes. "Fair enough. I am looking away now."

"Good. Then I would like to talk to you about today, if you please."

"Talk? How boring. And what is there about today to speak of?" he queried.

She was half-turned away from him with her hands in her hair, but she still managed to shoot him a look between the crook of her raised arm. "Well, how sloppy you were, for one thing."

Zevran studiously kept his gaze focused on the ground. "No more than usual, especially with such a lovely distraction by my side."

Leliana sighed again. "Daen has mentioned how deceptive you can be. He is all that is keeping me from strangling you right now, believe me." Her arms dipped into the water, rising again to pour a handful over her shoulders. "Deflect all you want, but you were uncommonly distracted today."

"I think you will agree that there was much to be distracted about today." He raised a hand in a peaceful gesture. "And I am not speaking of you this time."

"But that is exactly what I am speaking of." Leliana turned, up to her shoulders in water. "Hand me my towel, would you?"

Zevran picked the fluffy bit of cloth up and extended it in her general direction, deliberately a little off center from where he knew she stood to demonstrate that he was still not looking at her. He heard her exhale once again and slosh forward, plucking the towel from his outstretched hand.

He waited a few minutes for the sounds of rustling cloth to cease before speaking again. "May I face my accuser now?"

"Yes, you may."

He turned around again. She stood barefoot before him, her skin gleaming once more beneath her clothes, and her hair tucked into the neatly bundled towel on her head. She had her hands on her hips and the pommel of her dagger flashed once more at her belt.

"Your distraction today was telling, and I have yet to hear you admit this out loud yourself. Trust me on this, there are certain things that must be given life through the breath of one's own lips before they can thrive like the beautiful creatures they are meant to be."

"I do not understand. I am afraid you lost me in the middle of your poetics," Zevran said flatly.

Leliana laughed, laying her hand on his arm. She did have a beautiful laugh, one suiting a bard. "Oh, Zevran! I am a bard, I know lore! And when love is involved, it is my favorite! What you do not understand is what our dear Grey Warden means to you. You love him!"

Zevran recoiled, shaking her hand away. "Ah, I believe you are mistaken," he said smoothly. "The boy has his charms, much like you, my dear. But it is lovemaking he and I share, not love. Crows do not love. It is unnecessary. And burdensome."

"But you are no longer a Crow, are you not? You have said this time and time again." Leliana tilted her head to the side and sent her blue eyes searching into his. Shasta_, but the woman is good with those eyes!_ Zevran thought.

"And tonight you behaved as delicately as a mabari charging headlong at a fallen beef bone, not at all like the trained assassin you are. And let us not forget, you did all of that and acted that way because of someone. For Daen." Leliana placed a delicate alabaster hand on Zevran's chest, at the point where his ribs curved to meet, like the teeth of a trap jealously guarding its catch. "Zevran, _mon am'_, do you truly not know what everything you have been doing means? Or are you only too afraid to accept?"

Faster than the bard could blink, Zevran grabbed her extended hand tight within a gloved fist and stepped forward, leaning down and forcing Leliana to the ground. Her head bumped against the grass. Zevran loomed over her, one hand keeping hers planted against his chest, the other curved lightly against the base of her throat with just enough weight to convey a threat just as much as a caress. His head blocked the moon and all she could see of his face were his amber eyes, deliberately emotionless and still. Leliana could feel his heart beating like the wings of a bird fighting against the wind, throbbing below the webs of her hand with the heavy determination of a creature set on survival. The rhythm meant that he was alert for something—and it also meant that he would not hurt her. Leliana chose to relax, and looked into his eyes again.

"Shall I show you exactly how little the Warden means to me?" Zevran purred. "You did say you wanted to see me with my pants off, did you not?"

His face dropped towards hers. Lips found lips, teeth nipping at flesh in anticipation. When he raised his eyes, she was still staring at him. He reared back.

"Zevran, you and I have never spoken to each other of our pasts, but surely Daen must have mentioned something to you about mine."

"No. Nothing." Zevran smiled, a little bitterly. "I did ask—about all of you, as a matter of fact. Our Warden is very tight-lipped. He has his own reasons for keeping each of us under his wing, I suppose."

Leliana chuckled. "Well, he _is_ the quiet type, isn't he. May I tell you a little about me?"

Zevran arched an eyebrow at her. "Really, my dear? Is now the right time?"

"Let me up."

He rolled to the side, keeping his seat on the ground. Leliana sat up and turned herself so that she faced him squarely, her legs crossed. Zevran quirked the corner of his mouth at the expression in her eyes. When they had come across the Dalish camp in the Brecilian Forest, there had been an apparently sick _halla_ who had eyes like that—limpid, like they were begging you to fall into them. Daen had been unable to resist helping, of course, and it had turned out that the halla's mate was sick. Her eyes were all the creature had had to communicate with, and she had pushed every ounce of her desperation into them, hoping someone would understand what they meant.

Leliana laced her fingers together and rested her joined hands on her crossed ankles. "I was in love, once, with a woman who could not trust anyone. Marjolaine. You met her. Do you remember how she smiled, how her hair was so perfect, how she moved like the wind? She was always like that. Carefree, and headstrong. I thought nothing could shake her. Marjolaine took me by the hand and helped me to stand when I thought that there was nothing worth standing up for. She was wild, and free, and she wanted to train me, and give me important things to do. Oh, I loved her, Zevran. I loved her with all of my heart. I wanted us to be together forever, and I would have done anything that she had asked me to do, without question.

"She returned my love by stabbing me in the stomach, framing me for treason, and abandoning me to be a plaything for a beast's amusement. And we killed her. And that is how my love ended."

Zevran quirked the corner of his mouth. For a moment, Leliana glimpsed what must have been the ghost of the boy Zevran had been before his full indoctrination into his life as a Crow—a little surprised, a little bitter, a little uncertain. Trying hard to hide that he had dreamed of a different life, because it would mean weakness if he let that hope show. "And this is supposed to help me? You yourself know how this emotion leaves you open to things you do not want entering."

"That isn't why I told you that." Leliana shook her head. "It is true that I felt that way. I ran to the Chantry because I needed to feel safe—safe from Marjolaine, and the knowledge that I might one day become just like her. But since traveling with the Wardens, I have realized that I could live another way, a way that did not mean I would become another Marjolaine, a thing hardly human and so afraid of betrayal that I would rather slit an innocent throat than consider any other solution."

"I believe that is called self-preservation, Leliana. Or did you not learn this in your training as a bard?"

She sighed. "Maker's breath, you are so stubborn. You are just like Morrigan." He bristled at that, but she continued. "You have been very busy keeping Daen away from her lately, which means you must have noticed how close Morrigan and he were. She would not say it herself, of course, but I was with them on their last trip to Soldier's Peak and I overheard Morrigan talking with Daen." Leliana hesitated. "I would not be telling you of this if I did not think you needed to hear it. She gave something to him, a piece of jewelry, I think, and she said that it would allow her to know where he was at all times. It was a gesture she seemed willing to make. But then Daen asked her whether it would also allow him to know where she was, and her face changed. She had not considered the full implications of that link between them until he asked that question. Morrigan had just handed him a piece of herself. And then, by the next week, it had fallen apart between them." A smile played on Leliana's full lips. "And you were well on the way towards moving Daen into your tent."

* * *

_Zevran spotted Daen looking toward Morrigan's makeshift lean-to Morrigan, his expression pensive, arm cocked at his side as if poised to remove something from within his beltpouch. The shapechanger witch constructed her lodgings from whatever materials she found every time they set up camp, but always built it well away from the others. The distance had its uses, as she never failed to point out when asked if she would like to move closer to the rest of the group; she had warned them of a bandit attack on three separate occasions, and held off a pack of wolves on her own at least one time that Zevran knew of. It also meant, as the witch surely intended, that few in the camp bothered to drop by for a visit with much consistency. Except for Daen._

_"Ah, Warden. Care for a game of Diamondback?" Zevran inquired, slinging a friendly arm over Daen's neck and casually scooping the smaller elf into his chest—and turning him well away from Morrigan's lean-to at the same time._

_"Oof. Come on, Zev," Daen mumbled into Zevran's neck. He pulled away, just enough so that they stood comfortably abreast, but allowed Zevran's arm to remain draped across his shoulders. He wasn't much for physical contact in public. Neither was Zevran, ordinarily, but he enjoyed Daen's reactions. "Oghren always gets mad at someone and Alistair always ends up in nothing but a loincloth and his socks. And you never lose a hand. Would it kill you to take it easy on us for once?"_

_"I could, but then it would not be a challenge! Where would be the fun in that? No, this time I was thinking it could be..._mano a mano_. How do you say...hmm, a private game. Just you and me, no?"_

_"Hah! Loser gets his hurt feelings massaged away?" Daen grinned, then leaned in suddenly and bumped his forehead under the Antivan's chin. It was a very catlike gesture. Zevran looked down in surprise._

_"How nice. Are you feeling well, _amora_?" _

_"Of course." He stayed tucked there, body relaxed and warm. One arm slid up Zevran's back, coming to a comfortable rest between his shoulderblades. Daen always found a way to fit himself to the lines of Zevran's body._

Hmm. This, I could get used to.

_Through the cornsilk tips of Daen's hair, Zevran saw the witch staring straight at them. Her yellow eyes narrowed, nearly imperceptibly over the distance between them; but if looks could kill, a lesser man might have turned tail and headed straight back to Antiva. _

Well, I do love a challenge._ Zevran broke eye contact with the witch first, intending to take advantage of Daen's proximity. But just as suddenly as he had come to Zevran, the Warden backed away._

_"The game sounds...interesting. I'll drop by later. I just have to talk to Morrigan first."_

_"Oh?" _

_Zevran kept his voice nonchalant, but something must have leaked through. The Warden paused, then hesitantly reached out and took the assassin's hand in his own, his hold gentle but firm. Once again, Zevran found himself wondering at how strong the Warden's hands were, at odds with the rest of his bony frame. They were nearly as big as Zevran's, and too large for his body, like a puppy's paws. But they were muscled and calloused with the practice of holding daggers and climbing trees, the fingers long like a bard's and nimble at disarming traps. They were the first things to move in battle and the last when alone with Zevran—hesitant hands, inviting the lover to act first, but not shy about responding in kind. _

_Sometimes, Zevran was not sure who was leading who in their relationship. He had told the Warden a long time ago that he would ask for no more than what the Warden was willing to give, and he had meant it. But as forthright as Daen could be about inviting himself into Zevran's tent, he was remarkably more cautious about everything else. _

_But sometimes a little more giving was a necessary encouragement. The reward was always worth it._

_"It's nothing, Zev. I just have something of hers. I think she needs it back."_

* * *

"You and Morrigan are so very similar, you know. You are both afraid of love, thinking of it as a weakness in your armor. It is not so. Love comes in many forms and many ways. Love does not make your life, but it does not break it. Yes, sometimes it makes us fall, but it also makes us stand."

Zevran cocked a brow.

Leliana giggled. "Not what I meant, Zevran, you know that. Morrigan let Daen go. I do not think she really wanted to. I saw Daen giving a ring to her not too long ago, and at first I thought it was another one of those little trinkets he keeps finding everywhere for us. But then I knew it was the ring that Morrigan had given him before, the one that let her hear him and him hear her. When he gave it to her, she looked as if he had just handed her a piece of herself. She let him go because she was afraid of losing that piece. For someone like Morrigan, it is a weakness to not be able to control all of yourself. It is how she survived in the Wilds, and it is how she survives now. She sees herself as...a vessel, a vase. She is afraid that losing a part of herself means that she will no longer be able to hold the rest of herself inside. I wish it was not so. No one is a mere tool meant for specific purposes, utterly useless once broken." She met his eyes. "Not even you, _m'sieur_ Crow.

"You said once, when we were searching for the Ashes of Andraste, that you trusted your friends enough to have faith that they would stab you in your back. Who did you mean when you said that? Was it us?"

"I had forgotten that I said that. I think it was more out of frustration at that bloody bridge." Zevran shrugged, aware that Leliana was waiting for an answer. This conversation was turning into the most uncomfortable challenge he had ever endured. "At the time, I might have meant all of you."

"Do not lie, Zevran. You still mean us, don't you?"

"I...of course not. That would be foolish. I most certainly would not be traveling with you for as long as I have if I expected a betrayal around every corner."

Leliana looked at him, her blue eyes soft, and said nothing.

He ran a hand irritably through his hair. "Fine. Yes. But it is always a possibility."

"Zevran, do you believe Daen will betray you one day?"

Zevran looked away. He said nothing.

Leliana reached out and clasped one of Zevran's hands earnestly between her own. He chose to concentrate on them. He had always liked her hands; they belied the rest of her. All of the fine clothing and lotions and training in the world could not change her Fereldan hands. They were narrower than Daen's, but even larger and with square-tipped fingers. They did not look like the hands of a minstrel, yet they handled a lute with ease, and the size made them well suited for stretching to extreme chords on a harp. They were soft hands, worked at daily with some kind of Orlesian cream, but calloused on her fingertips and along the part of her palm where she held her bow.

"Oh, Zevran."

"This is silly."

"Please don't ignore it, Zevran. It would break my heart to see you throw away what you and Daen have. And it would break Daen's, too."

He shook his hands free from hers and stood without thinking. When he realized that he was poised to walk back to the camp with the others, he forced himself to stay in place. A Crow would flee, having no use for Leliana or her interference. But he had left the Crows.

_And that makes me...but an elf? With fancy weaponry._

_"We are a broken people,"_ he remembered Daen saying._ "Not cowards."_

_Not cowards,_ amora_? I might surprise you with how cowardly I can be._

Zevran crossed his arms over his chest and shifted his weight to one leg, assuming a relaxed stance to hide that he had almost left her sitting there. "So then, Leliana, oh wise master in love, tell me: What is it? How does one know when it is more than a means of getting your mark to take down his guard?"

"Really, Zevran? You do not just feel it when you are with Daen?"

"I feel many things with the Warden, many of which I have felt before with others, often right before I slit their throats. As I have not slit the Warden's throat yet, I can only assume this feeling means something different. But I cannot say it is...what you say it is."

"Zevran..."

"Describe it for me, then. You are a minstrel, no?"

"This is a difficult thing you ask of me. Even the best minstrel will always fail to describe love when asked to do so. Love does not work that way. Sometimes it is sudden and sometimes it builds up, until one day...you realize that it can't be anything else, and you can't live with anyone else." Leliana settled back, raising a knee so that her other leg ran below it, like a river under a bridge. She clasped the raised knee and rested her chin on top. "You think about them all of the time. Then everything they do makes you want to laugh and hold them forever." Leliana paused. "What else? Oh, how about this: Everyone else says that there is something wrong with them—something like, oh, say, Daen is a packrat and never knows how to throw things away—"

"He is a little bit of a packrat, but he is just being practical. You never know when you might need a—er, silk carpet—"

"—and you make excuses for that flaw, or you think it's one of the charming things about them. Or both." It was her turn to raise an eyebrow at him. "Or maybe your bed feels empty when he is not there."

"He invites himself in almost every night, and I sleep perfectly well when he is not around. Better, even. There is more room."

"You help him with his grooming, even when he does not ask for it."

"I help all of you with your grooming. It is charity work."

"You tolerate friends of his that you do not like." She quirked her eyebrow again. "Such as a certain dark-haired enchantress?"

"I am not merely _tolerating_ her, I assure you. I am working on getting into her graces. She is a challenge, our Morrigan."

"I suppose that's one way of putting it." Leliana coughed delicately and continued. "His causes become your causes, because you like the way his eyes come to life when he is pursuing them."

He was silent.

"You feel like you hurt when he hurts. You act to keep him from getting hurt. You want to hurt whoever does hurt him. You rush off on an impossible mission simply because it might save his life..."

"Would _you_ have let him die?" Zevran shot back.

"No. Because I love him, too." She looked at him, and her candidness made him feel as though anything else he might say had just died on his tongue.

"As in some mandate from the Maker?"

"Not true. The Chant only requires that we not do harm to one another. It does not command love. Of course, having great love in your heart for the Maker's children—or at least saying you do—helps the unenlightened feel more receptive to hearing the Chant, but I am under no such illusions; I cannot love everyone. I love Daen, and Alistair, and Soris and Wynne and Shale. Sten is impossible to imagine loving, but I do like him, and I trust him to be who he is. Morrigan, I trust in battle, but I do not like her. And Oghren is a disgusting little man who I sincerely hope to see get crushed in a dragon's jaws someday or trapped in a nug farm during the mating season...Maker forgive me." Leliana smiled sweetly. "But I also trust him in battle. And you? You are hard to love sometimes, particularly when I catch you staring at my behind or hear you asking to use Wynne's chest as a pillow, but I like you, and sometimes I even love you."

"And you expect me to follow your example?" He laughed.

"Oh, no. People do not love the same. But everyone _can_ love; it's just that they sometimes think that they do not need it, and they fool themselves into thinking they cannot as a result." Leliana put her knee down and scooted closer to Zevran. "In Orlais, any kind of affection is _amour_, and there are many types. Daen likes all of us, even Oghren, Maker knows why; he feels _am'amour_ for us, the love of friends. For Alistair, he also feels something a little deeper; it is _frer'amour_, the love of brothers." She reached out and placed her open palm on the center of his chest. "But you are the only one he loves like a lover, the only love that eats you alive. You are _la coeur_—his heart. The thing that he cannot live without."

Zevran fell silent again.

Leliana took her hand away and rested it back upon her knee. "Do you know, Alistar has been very direct about what is going on between you and Daen when you are not around. He kept telling Daen that it is not a good idea, that you are an assassin and a Crow, and that he'll wake up one day with a knife at his throat—or more likely just not wake up at all."

Zevran could not hold back his irritation. "_Caro di feca_ _putta_—"

"And do you know what Daen finally told him? He said, 'Alistair, it is none of your business.' Of course, Alistair brought it up again. This time, he said, 'Alistair, if he leaves, then so do I.'" She shrugged. "And Alistair has not said anything since."

He deflated. "He said that? To Alistair?"

Leliana was not done. "Do you remember when we were going through the Deep Roads, and we came to that horrible thaig with the spider queen?"

"I do not recall much of that point personally." He grinned sardonically. "The Warden sent me ahead as a scout, and the next thing I knew there was a very persistent, very angry, very poisonous spider dropping down on my head. When I came to, it was dead, Morrigan was telling me to be more careful next time, and I had a headache the size of Shale's fist."

"You missed quite a bit while you were unconscious. We were waiting back on the little bridge just before that cavern for you to report back, and suddenly there was this...awful scream. Daen went whiter than a bone and ran off before we could stop him. Morrigan and I had to follow. We found him trying to drag you away from a group of spiders. You know how much bigger you are than he is—you are all muscle, and he was split between dragging you and fighting off spiders! He was getting very lucky with dodging the poison spit and the webs, but he had still been hit. Morrigan froze a few of them and kept yelling at him for running off, and he kept telling her to shut up and help him with you. And then the spider queen showed up before we could make it back to the bridge, so we had to fight her where we were, in the open. It was a horribly indefensible place to be."

"I cannot say I like the idea of being dead weight."

She waved a hand dismissively. "It happens to all of us, no? In any case, Daen didn't want to leave you, but he is terrible with a bow and I am not as effective at close quarter fighting as he is. I told him this, trying to reason with him while Morrigan tried to keep the queen at a distance on her own. He gave me a look that I will never forget, so full of sparks that I am surprised I did not catch on fire. You know how he is in battle, so commanding that you are almost compelled to do anything he asks?"

Zevran nodded.

"He grabbed my wrist and said to me, 'Don't leave him, Leliana,' and drew his daggers and went for the spider queen. So I did not leave you. It is a good thing Sten was not there for that fight; he would have lost patience with Daen, the way he kept turning around to check on you throughout. When the queen was dead, he dropped his daggers and ran back immediately for you. Morrigan had her potions ready, of course, and he wouldn't let go of your hand."

"So that is how he lost those daggers."

She laughed. "Indeed. But I think you might like this, Zevran—he was very, very sorry, your Daen. Apologizing to you, yelling for Morrigan to do something, babbling that it was all his fault. I have never heard Daen babble before then and I still haven't since. Morrigan finally sent him away, although honestly I think she was just trying to calm him down. I followed him because I was afraid there might be more spiders. He didn't go very far, just sat around a corner with his back to some stalagmites. I walked up to him and he looked up at me and said, 'Leliana, it's my fault.' He looked so much like Soris after Alistair caught him stealing a trout for his fish pudding. 'No,' I told him. 'It is Zevran's fault for letting that spider squish him.'"

"Oh, thank you for that."

"Just trying to lighten his mood, no? Maybe you are glad to know that it did not work? He didn't even smile. 'I should have gone myself," he said. 'It should have been me.' Making excuses, I thought. 'So it was not you,' I said. 'How could you have known? Sometimes leaders have to make tough decisions and sometimes the results are not what they meant them to be. You made the decision, and Zevran will be fine. It could have easily been you, or Morrigan, or me.'

"So. Now is the point where most people would say, Leliana, don't tell me he started to act like a plucked chicken about having to protect the love of his life, waxing poetic about giving his life to be the one lying back there instead."

"Oh dear."

"And I would tell that person, no. You do not know our Warden. Daen just sat quietly for a little. Then he told me that I was right. He asked you to go because he knew you were the best for what he thought was out there. There had been too many spiders along the way to rule out the possibility of there being more, and he had not sensed darkspawn. If there was something out there, then he needed to send someone who could look around quietly and had the best chance of surviving an ambush. In a word, you. The only thing he had not known was the chance of there being a nest with a queen. 'There,' I said. 'You thought about the possibilities, and picked the best odds to avoid a bad outcome, so it could not have gone any other way.' And he looked at me, and he said: 'I know, Leliana. But it still hurts to see him lying there, and knowing that he wouldn't be if I hadn't asked him to go.' Around that time, Morrigan started calling us saying that you were awake, so we went back. And you were fine, and the smile on Daen's face? It should have lit up the entire Deep Roads."

"A pity you did not bring your lap harp with you. It would have made good accompaniment."

"Well, lap harps do not like much moisture, and as I came out here to bathe..." she trailed off and smiled. "I wish you could have seen how relieved he was."

"I did." Zevran looked into the distance—Leliana thought perhaps at one tent in particular. "He was the first thing I saw. It felt like seeing a demon in the Fade—too real, too bright. Exactly what I wanted to see."

He shrugged, rotating his shoulders briefly like a cat preparing itself to strike. "I think it is time for me to return to the others. Perhaps the antidote has finished its work."

"Zevran," she said, stopping him again. "You call Daen so many interesting names—_ayana, gatto_...what am I missing? Mm..._amora_, no?"

"They are mere words. They do not mean much."

But those words, at least, were the wrong ones to say to a professional minstrel. "Words mean everything!" she said, brows quivering. "They embody what you feel about him, but are avoiding saying outright. Why speak of these things in a language he cannot understand?" Leliana smiled. "Say these things to him in Fereldan, Zevran. So that he understands it. Forget the Deep Roads, when he hears you he will set the whole world on fire, you shall see."

"Charming." Zevran stood there, shifting his weight back and forth a few times. "I will think on what you have said." He turned again, but did not move.

"Leliana," he said over his shoulder, "this thing you speak of—it will not keep my daggers sharp or my mind keen, or my stomach full and poison out of my drink."

"Do not think of it as something that is either necessary or not, then. You need to eat, and plain bread will do. But you, you are insisting on eating the same plain bread, saying that that is all that you need, when there is butter sitting right next to you." She quirked her eyebrow at him. "Or _all over_ you, rather."

He looked back at that same point in the distance. "I do not know if a Crow can change enough to learn that."

Leliana smiled. "Oh, Zevran. Everyone changes—when they have a reason."

* * *

_Orlesian:_  
Er, not much to say here. It doesn't deviate much from real French or what Leliana explains on her own.

_Antivan:  
_Caro di feca putta... = If Zevran had finished, he would have just called Alistair a "shit-faced son of a bitch." Rude.

_I would have posted this earlier if I hadn't been so utterly dissatisfied with it on every re-read. The last few moments in _Beak _influence why the relationship is the way it is in _Clouds_, though, so I did want to get it out before the relationship in_ Clouds _progresses any further_.

___Anyway, now I am only mildly dissatisfied with this chapter and I figure that is the best I will feel._

___There will likely not be a chapter in either _Clouds_ or _Beak_ next Sunday. I don't want to post the next _Beak_ chapter until _Clouds_ goes further, and _Clouds_ is giving me...issues. I can't decide whether to just go ahead and post what I have or re-write it completely. And then there is work. Man. This should teach me a lesson about publishing companion fics simultaneously._

_Thanks to the new followers and favoriters, in the mean time!_

_Until next time._

_-K_


	9. Part IX

PART IX

All eyes abandoned Zevran as Wynne's tent flap rustled and lifted. The mage emerged, the lines of her face etched in an exhausted hand. "He's awake. Alistair, spoon up a bowl of whatever stew you've got going and hand it to me, would you?"

Zevran had stepped forward without realizing it the moment he heard Wynne push the tent flap aside. Wynne paused and studied him, her gray eyes cool. Then she nodded at Alistair to hand the soup bowl to Zevran and stepped to the side, holding the flap open behind her. "Take that inside. I think you should go see him now, Zevran. He's been asking about you."

"Has he? How exciting." Zevran felt his fingers clutch a little more than necessary at the warm bowl in his hands, but he kept his voice casual and ducked his head into the tent. Wynne let it fall behind him without warning, and he scooted forward as the flap hit his back. The world around him fell silent, the sounds of the camp muffled as if they came from across the sea.

Soris was a brown lump by Daen's head, having resumed his position as Daen's pillow. His back had been wiped clean of the blood that had stained it previously, and his head was held high and his mouth open in a canine's wide-mouthed, tongue-lolling grin. He looked up at Zevran and wagged his stub of a tail briefly. He seemed to be very interested in the bowl in Zevran's hands.

Daen lay against the dog with what seemed like every blanket and piece of clothing Wynne could find in camp tucked up to his chin. Zevran even recognized one of Leliana's most treasured possessions, a fine silk scarf dyed a rich amethyst and embroidered with pure gold thread, stuck into the pile. That particular item never failed to enliven its owner's face, but even its magic could not erase the hollowness under Daen's cheekbones and the tired bruises below his eyes.

He appeared asleep, but his ink black eyes opened when Zevran's shadow cut across his face and his pale lips spread into a wan smile. A calloused hand, bare from fingertips to the sinews of his shoulder, emerged from under the layers of blanket and reached upwards. Although it trembled from the exertion, the motion was unhesitant and direct.

Zevran took the hand and knelt by Daen's side. He was warm, as warm as the bowl of stew balanced forgotten in Zevran's opposite hand. Daen smiled up at him, his eyes like flecks of obsidian at the bottom of a well, and his face ragged, but awake. _And alive._ Zevran felt a brief pressure on his hand, weak and nowhere near the cocksure strength he had felt in the past. Daen might as well have reached into Zevran's chest and squeezed his heart.

"Could use...one of those...massages now."

Daen's exuberant tenor, always the first thing Zevran listened for in the heat of battle, emerged from cracked lips like it came from a genlock's throat. It was the first time Zevran had heard him speak in a while, and he couldn't tell if his heart had jumped from the shock of unfamiliarity or from something else entirely.

The smile on Daen's face widened, and his eyes sparked to life. Zevran had seen that look before, gazing down at him and proffering a gloved hand, palm open to accept the oath Zevran had just sworn and simultaneously offering Zevran's life back to him. Zevran had taken it without a second thought. Then, the motion had been like a falconer's signal to his bird to come roost on his arm, and Zevran flew to him eagerly. It was not such a terrible thing to become, perched by Daen's side with daggers at the ready for the Warden's next command. He would still be an assassin—that was who he was, after all—but at least he would not be a Crow.

"You need only ask, my dear Warden. Although I am tempted to withhold those, to teach you not to just drink everything that Oghren hands you! You very nearly served us to the Archdemon on a very shiny silver platter. Can you imagine all of Ferelden's forces, stuck with Alistair at the head, hmm?" Zevran laughed lightly. "We would be trounced in moments. And pantsless. I must compliment you on your fine choice with the bleeding and the twitching, however. Very dramatic."

Daen chuckled. "Oh...heard...you were...little dramatic...yourself. Think my aunt told me...story like it once. Just needed a poncy white horse."

"Alas, our darling Wynne cannot keep a secret to herself. It is a good thing I love her for so much more than that little fault of hers." Zevran shrugged and averted his eyes to just below Daen's chin. "You...did give her a bit of a scare, however." His voice was lower and more monotonous than he had intended it to be. He loosened his grip on Daen's hand slightly, just enough to let himself breathe a little.

Zevran could only catch Daen's face on his periphery, but it was enough to see the Warden's smile fade into uncertainty with the change in pressure on his bare hand. Their hands lay together, but apart, the faintest whisper of air passing between their palms.

"After all that...still willing to...stay? With me?"

_What are you asking? Where else would I go?_

For despite Alistair's suspicion and constant quizzing, Zevran hadn't thought of himself as a Crow at all in the last few months. It was not because he was no longer strictly a part of them, but because he no longer killed with the desperation to see a contract through, or with the knowledge that this was the only way he could survive. It was no longer his life. Nor was it to be his death.

No one changed overnight. He had a feeling that there was a part of himself that would never change—_could_ never change. There was too much in his past to completely cast him anew. What he did not know was how much of himself was capable of changing.

And he had enough reason to make him believe that, despite everything, he could.

He set the cooling bowl of grey stew down and covered the hand he already held with his freed one. The sound of the dog eagerly slurping up the bowl's contents barely registered in his ears.

"Never doubt it," he said, and did not let go.

* * *

_Note: Happy Valentine's. _cielshadow17_ and _Tobyk947_, thank you so much for your kind words. Until next time. -K_


	10. Epilogue

_Just a note that the epilogue in _Beak_ spoils the last chapter in _Clouds_. If you've been reading either primarily, I'd say just stick with it. _

_Hindsight with publishing companion fics concurrently is 20/20. :\_

* * *

EPILOGUE

She acted only on a whispered rumor. Still, he was not hard to track down. He had made quite a reputation for himself in recent years, after all, and if he was in Kirkwall at all as the gossip suggested, then the Rose would be at the top of the list of where he might be.

He had his back planted to the corner of the brothel's common room. Nothing coming or going could escape his honeyed gaze from that vantage point. That, and his shadowed eyes, told her that the stories were true. He was an assassin again—a Crow again. Even if the Crows themselves had yet to accept him back into their ranks, the calculating glitter in his eyes said that he planned for that to change very soon. They were the eyes of a hawk, waiting to strike. It was only a matter of time.

"I heard I might find you here," Leliana said by means of a greeting. Zevran returned her gaze steadily, as unsurprised as if they had only parted ways yesterday. He had seen her come in, of course; she was as good as always at inconspicuously melting into a crowd, but it was hard for Zevran to miss her red hair, still as red as an apple and bobbed with an artful braid holding her bangs away from her face. She had worked hard to keep herself looking as much like the wide-eyed girl as she had seemed seven years ago. The creams were not cheap, but they did their job well.

Zevran, however, had not escaped time. His amber eyes might still enrapt the coldest heart at a hundred paces if he had a mind to do so, but he had no such intention now. Fine lines that would have suggested laughter in another face spoke only of years of squinting into every dark corner and cloaked figure, on the alert for another attempt on his life. His blond hair still glistened with the tones of sun-splashed wheat in the light of the single candle on the table before him, but threads of white caught the glow as effortlessly as a sword under moonlight. He wore a golden earring that Leliana did not recognize at first and had never seen on him before. But she knew what it was in the next breath, and felt her heart clench.

"Leliana," he said in greeting. He did not get up and made no motion outside of downing a glass full of some rust-colored liquid. Leliana sat down in the empty chair opposite of him anyway. She deliberately left her back exposed to the door, trusting him to remain as watchful as he had been in the past.

"And how have you been?" Zevran inquired, his voice deceptively smooth. He was on guard beneath the pretty shine. She had not seen him that way with her since his first few weeks traveling with the Wardens.

"I have...been well. I am doing some Chantry work right now." She hesitated. "And you?"

"Oh, I have been well enough. Things have been relatively quiet since the days we traveled together. But lately I have been a bit...distracted."

"An understatement. I have heard many stories of what you have been up to, Zevran. They say you are poised to take over the Crows as the first elven Guild Master in history."

"Ah, well, there is that." He shrugged nonchalantly.

"They also say you are one of the most indulgent Crows, in more ways than one. The whores, for example?"

Zevran shrugged and raised a hand for another drink. A glass filled with the same rust-colored liquid he had been putting away appeared at his elbow as though magicked there, and Leliana barely noticed their wisp of a server slipping away on unshod feet. "The stories are true. Especially the whores. They are pleasant distractions in an otherwise unpleasant life. All work and no play makes me a very trying person to be around, you see. Besides, Madame Lusine hires only the best here, and there is a most intriguing elven treasure to indulge in if one has enough coin..." He cast a searching look at Leliana as his index finger slipped its way around the rim of the fresh glass. "Temporary distractions, no more, I assure you. It passes what little time I have, outside of committing mayhem upon the next assassin sent my way. I am still in the process of convincing the Masters that I am still a member of the flock, so to speak, but it is only a matter of time. And there is little time for anything else nowadays."

"I...understand."

"Have you kept in touch with the others?"

She shook her head. "Not much. I hear things, here and there. Oghren is a Warden, if you can believe it."

"That _is_ a little hard to believe."

"He has softened a little. Being a father has been good for him."

"That is a little harder to believe."

"Oh, he's still the same Oghren beneath that, but otherwise, it is an improvement. I have not heard word from Sten, but I can only hope he is still in Par Vollen and was not involved in that Kirkwall business a few years ago. Wynne is still with the Circle. She mentioned having traveled with Shale when I last saw her—but I believe Shale may have returned to Orzammar now." Leliana cocked her head at him. "Morrigan, no one has heard from."

"As it should be." Zevran looked as if he wanted to spit on the ground. "_Putta traiciona_."

"There were rumors of a dark-haired witch in the empress' court in Orlais a few years ago, but I have not seen her myself."

"And Alistair? King Alistair, I suppose. I had heard he was in Kirkwall not too long ago."

"He was, actually, although I did not catch him while he was here. He is doing well. He seems to be getting along with Anora, and he is a much-loved king. I think without him, Ferelden would be much longer in recovery from the Blight."

"Hmm." Zevran seemed to be very preoccupied with his empty glass. "Well, it is good to hear that at least one of our Grey Wardens is making good for himself."

The second was no slouch himself, and hard at work in Amaranthine—but she knew what he intended behind those words. Leliana bit the inside of her lip, unsure if she should be asking the question that lingered on her tongue. There was so much pain in the lines of his jaw. She had to know. "Zevran...are you all right? I have heard many rumors..."

"You have mentioned that." Zevran lifted the corner of his mouth. "Well, I am doing as well as one could, all things considered. It has merely been a challenge, and I do love a challenge. I am just doubtful as to what all of it has meant. He spoke so often of changing so many things. The Blight is over, true, and some things have changed, but everything that should have did not. Orzammar refuses the surface. Mages are as feared as always, perhaps more so. The Dalish wander without a home. The Denerim alienage is still filled with miserable elves—although they now have weapons, so there is that." The caustic edge that had simply lurked beneath his voice overtook it completely. "And still I am tortured with endless _feca_ about a selfless Grey Warden no one can even name correctly. Hero, they call him. I swear I shall strangle the next minstrel I hear that from with their own lute strings."

"Zevran, they are all such lovely songs. They lift the spirit."

"And they are often very wrong. I notice you have not been doing much to correct them."

"All good songs bend the truth a little. That is part of the art of storytelling. A little drama captures the attention, makes sure the entire story is heard. There is no harm in it, and much joy to be had for the listeners. It is a shame so many insist on misspelling his name, but that is only so for those who can read. For those who listen to the songs, the way they are intended to be received, the parallels they draw between our elven Warden and the hero Dane are inspired." Leliana leaned back in her chair.

"Inspired, and causes most to immediately believe it was a human who killed the Archdemon."

"That is unfortunate. But I remember and honor him for what he was. And I made my contribution many years ago. I am simply not doing so much minstreling nowadays." She pitched her voice to a lighter tone. "I would have thought you would like the ballads; they all make you sound so gallant! The handsome blond Crow, fighting at his beloved's side from the Deep Roads to even the Fade itself..."

"Indeed. It is the least they could do," he replied dryly. "I note that they all keep in the part where I am not by his side when he faced the Archdemon. And such interesting interpretations as to why that was so! I spurned him, he spurned me, Morrigan seduced me, I was afraid—the list goes on." The side of his mouth twisted into a disfiguring smirk, as though he was about to share a terrible joke. "But I suppose it is far too common to simply say that one's lover was left behind because _he_ decided to go on a suicide mission. There is not enough drama, yes?"

She sat up, feeling her heart crumble in her chest. None of them had known what killing the Archdemon would mean until Loghain told them afterwards. He made them all swear not to speak of it to anyone else, and they all did, and stood together in stunned silence while Loghain confessed. _It was supposed to be me,_ he had said. She glanced at Zevran then and would never forget the chill that had settled over his eyes. She thought it would have left him by now, but now she could see that it had only burrowed deeper inside. "Oh, no, Zevran. He didn't know it would end just like that. I am sure that if he did—"

Zevran cut her off. He had no more patience for her wide-eyed romanticism. "Do you recall, Leliana, the night in Redcliffe before we went after the Archdemon, how Daen and Loghain went to speak with that Orlesian Warden in private? It was a very long talk. He said it was just strategizing, of course, but I should have known, even before Loghain confessed it all to us afterward. I convinced myself to think nothing of it when he came to me that night, that he knew no more than what he told me. And I believed it like a fool until I saw his body."

* * *

_He opened his eyes and saw the top of Fort Drakon struck through with a spear of light, and felt relief spread through him. The nightmare was over. He limped off towards the old Tevinter tower before anyone could stop him, although Daen's father and cousins caught up to him eventually, chattering excitedly at him. He nodded and heard nothing that they said. Daen's mabari seemed tense and dashed ahead, but he thought nothing of it._

_He waited breathless with the others for them to arrive at the mouth of Fort Drakon. First Enchanter Irving, Arl Eamon, and Kardol emerged first, leading the contingent that had joined the Wardens on the rooftop. A throng of ground forces awaited their arrival, elves and dwarves shoulder to shoulder with mages and humans, and he and his friends at their head. Bann Teagan thrust his sword into the air. "Hail, Grey Wardens!" he shouted, and a roar of cheers and rattling weapons overtook his cry. _

_ But the stillness in what should have been faces vibrant with victory filled Zevran's chest with dread._

_Wynne and Loghain seemed to be registering nothing except the first three feet of empty air in front of them. Leliana, however, saw him almost immediately. Her eyes widened, her head shook slightly, and she stepped in front of Loghain to shield what the human held from view, perhaps attempting to soften the blow of what was to come._

_ Still he saw the body cradled in Loghain's arms, armorless, skin bruised and torn and even paler than the hair on its head. The face was hidden, turned into Loghain's chest, and he was glad of that small mercy. Starfang rested across the narrow chest, its blade still stained with the ichor of the Archdemon's life. The cornsilk hair that he had easily brushed out of eyes as black as ink just days before was clotted with dried patches of rust brown. Between the stiffened locks, a golden earring glittered in the space of a breath before it disappeared from view. _

_Below, a broken hand dangled negligently in thin air, barely clinging to a recognizable form within the remaining shreds of a leather glove. Tendons were snapped and fine bones rearranged, as if hammered repeatedly with a mallet. The palm was ripped into ribbons of bright red, practically stripped of both glove and skin. But the unprotected tapered fingers, now crooked and bent at unfamiliar angles, still bore the distinctive imprint of the wrappings on Starfang's hilt. The dark blue patterns were stamped deep into what flesh remained, and would never leave._

_Over the sounds of the army Daen had gathered against the Blight, the dog began to howl as he had never heard the mabari cry before. The anguished wail filled his ears until it was all that he could hear. _

_And it was all he heard for many days afterward._

* * *

Zevran's voice was as cold as steel.

"There were...things that I would have said, had I but known. Had he but told me. Even a whisper would have been enough. But he did not. Why? Do not patronize me with sugared words, Leliana. _He knew_. And he chose not to tell me."

"And so? You are angry that he decided not to take you, to witness his final moments? Is that what it is?" Leliana shook her head. "Of course he wouldn't have wanted you to see that. And we both know you would have tried to stop him if you knew. He couldn't risk that. He couldn't tell you, and he couldn't take you with him. It couldn't end any other way. Why do you still let this torture you?"

"Then why did he not make Loghain take the final blow?" Zevran's eyes chilled Leliana to the bone. "The way he and Alistair parted, I can understand why he could not have asked him to die that way. And Alistair was—is—king. The king that Ferelden both wanted and needed." He scratched at his temple impatiently. "Maker help me, I will never forgive that boy for abandoning Daen, but I can understand why he could not be the one. What I do not understand is Loghain. Loghain had much to make up for. To die taking down the Archdemon—it would have made him a hero, with justice poetic enough to destroy a minstrel with joy. Daen was a clod of _feca_ caught in the deepest treads of Ferelden's boots. What did he owe its people, to make him die instead? Was his life as a Grey Warden so much more important than anything else? Or did he just want the glory?" His voice rose with each question. He blinked and caught himself just before his voice overtook the mingled laughter of lovers and poured drinks surrounding them, and settled back into the arms of his chair, his face made of stone.

"I do not understand. And I never will."

Leliana was silent. His questions were masks. This part of him, she was sure, would never change, and that made her want to cry for him even more.

The leather-clad hand that did not encircle his shotglass tucked itself under his chin, elbow alight on the tabletop. The gloves were worn with years of use, but bore the signs of careful maintenance in the embroidery flowing intact over its surface. Zevran had always been a sensuous man, whether it was because he had grown up in a brothel or because, among the Crows, bodily pleasures were the only bits of selfishness they could indulge in for themselves. She could not help but wonder if he unconsciously touched his fist at that spot to remind himself of the days when flaxen hair and warm skin had rested there instead.

"I am sorry, Zevran," she finally said. It seemed appropriate, if wholly inadequate.

Zevran eyed her. "You should be. Not a day goes by when I wish you had not given me that lecture after the poisoning. Life would be much simpler for me now, without the weight of the memories."

_Would it?_ Leliana wondered. She had no more patience for his condemnations, and although her heart continued to ache, it did so now for her memories of the moon-haired elf with the shy smile, whose eyes were always turning towards Zevran. She had found Zevran difficult to deal with until she made herself try, and she only tried because Daen was so clearly infatuated. This venomous creature sitting before her was not what Daen deserved. _He_ did not deserve Daen.

Leliana reached into the back of her belt and slammed a carved length of dragonbone on the table. She had been carrying the old Dalish dagger for the past seven years. Her greatest regret was not finding a way to give it to Zevran earlier. She could bear its weight no longer.

"Zevran, you were _everything_ to him. Go on, tell me that that is but a sugarcoat. _He loved you_. There was _nothing_ stopping you from replying except yourself. Do not blame _me_ for your cowardice."

He stared down at the dragonbone blade between them before raising his eyes to look at her in surprise. Heat rose in her cheeks as she herself rose from her seat, and the warmth goaded her to continue, while her voice remained cold with the surety that she knew Zevran needed to hear. "And do not ever, _ever_ dare to blame him for being so brave. You were not there. I was. He met death with courage, and...and at least the minstrel songs you despise so much honor what he did, while _you_, of all people, sit sodden and spit upon his memory."

She closed her eyes, remembering his little face melting away in a flash of light that threw them all to the ground. For the briefest of moments, she had deliriously believed that the entire world was on fire.

When her vision cleared, Wynne knelt beside a tangled heap of limbs, her hands limp at her sides. She could not heal the dead.

They had done their best to hide the wounds for the funeral. The Arl of Redcliffe kept Alistair busy preparing for his coronation, and although Alistair protested, the Queen took charge of Daen. It would take blood magic to make him look whole again, so the Queen simply had her maid Erlina paint his pallid face to make him look as though he merely slept, and dressed him from head to toe in silver-plated armor and a finely wrought helmet even though he had never worn either. She had said that there was no time to commission work that would fit an elf, and that they had to make do with the smallest of the ceremonial armors her own knights wore on parade. What the powders and armor could not conceal—the side of his face where he had slid against stone, eyes so badly burned that they were just holes filled with raw flesh—was shrouded behind lengths of pristine white cloth.

Before the service began, Leliana saw a shadow bend over the bier and its silver-clad passenger, a curtain of wheat separating him and his Warden from the world. He turned as the first attendee entered, and smiled when he saw her standing there. But his amber eyes were empty and dead.

Under the sun, Daen shone like a mirror, impossible to ignore. Leliana sang for him, and would later sing a different song for him that ended with how he burned, guiding the lost even while he slept in peaceful death. But when she saw him that day, she could only think of how small he looked, himself lost within armor that had simply devoured him whole.

And Daen faded into light again as Andraste led him home.

"Of all of the things you have done in your life," she whispered, "there can be nothing lower than this. How could you do that to him? How could you do that to Daen?"

He would not look at her. His hand had reached out to take the dagger, and it rested beneath his fingers as if he touched a shard of glass. Standing over him, Leliana saw a muscle in Zevran's cheek twitch at her mention of the Warden's name, the spasm betraying what lay buried below the assassin's bitterness.

Her heart cried. _Oh, Daen, I know you only chose what seemed right. But this could not have been what you intended._

She made her voice soften. "We can spend the rest of our lives guessing, and never know what he was thinking. But I know in my heart that he thought of you. There was little else he could be willing to throw his life away for."

A snort was her only reply, but the way he refused to meet her eyes suggested that he wanted to believe her. And maybe subconsciously he already knew. He simply had been unable to accept it.

She moved as if to leave the table, and a hand suddenly covered hers. She looked at its owner in surprise. "Stay, Leliana. I have been unfair. I apologize. And it has been a long time."

She sank back into her seat, now more perched than relaxed between the chair's arms.

Zevran turned the dagger in his hands before silently putting it away at his own belt. "You...are right. I should not remember him for the choices he had no choice but to make."

"I am sorry, Zevran," she said again. "I wish—"

"But he was mine, Leliana," he interrupted.

His eyes glowed, holding within them the light of the candles before him.

"I know," she replied.

Leliana leaned back into her chair.

Finally, she nodded at his filled glass. "What are you drinking?"

"Ah, this?" He raised the glass to the light. "A few sighs and a whisper of how much I miss home do wonders for opening hearts. I have been steadily depleting Madame Lusine's private supply of Antivan brandy. It is sacrilege to serve it in a shotglass such as this, but beggars cannot be choosers. Perhaps it is time I ended the charade and simply purchased the whole bottle, yes?"

"I believe it is. I could use a glass myself." She raised her hand to catch their ghostly server's attention.

The bottle arrived, already half-empty and with a clean shotglass capping its mouth. She shook her head upon seeing it; it was the kind of carved glass carafe that collectors treasured, as much for the art of the container as the liquid treasure within. How had Zevran managed to wheedle it from Madame Lusine? Zevran was still Zevran, after all. That was some comfort.

She watched him pour her a glass, which she emptied; then she poured him a glass, which he emptied as well. Their talk began with the catch-ups and how-have-you-beens former comrades such as they should have had, without the rancor and the guarded replies. She could not tell him what she was doing now, and he accepted her apology with an understanding nod. When she asked why he had returned to the Crows, he answered simply: It was time for an elf to change things. She remembered the blue-eyed Shadow with her children by her side, disappearing into an impossibly bright night. They had never met again. She agreed.

In an hour, they turned to memories and stories, trading favorites back and forth with a sip each in between. Leliana waited until the liquid had diminished to half again and then, perhaps emboldened by her warmed throat and fuzzy thoughts, told the tale of how she first met Daen, well before Zevran had joined. Zevran reciprocated with his own story—Leliana had not been in the scouting party during the ambush, and she giggled at Zevran's description of the attack.

"I awoke tied tighter than an Orlesian noblelady in her finest corset, and just about as able to breathe. I do not know who was responsible for the trussing, but I suspect it was Daen himself. Knots bigger than Sten's fists, and more numerous than Daen's hair after he wakes up! I looked like a chew toy for the dog!"

They pounded the table, tears in their eyes as they howled and drew looks from the Rose's patrons. It felt good to hear him laugh, and to watch the age melt away from his face.

"Almost as good as 'Princess Stabbity,'" she managed to choke out. "They made me so mad sometimes, but Maker, I miss our Wardens..."

Zevran made one last chuckle, and then coughed as though he was clearing his throat. "Leliana...how did he die? I have never had the courage to ask. His wounds were..." He coughed again. "Was it...fast?"

She laughed nervously, to buy herself some time. "Do you want the minstrel version? Or...?"

He slowly lifted a sodden eyebrow. "I have made it clear how I feel about minstrel songs, yes?"

"Then if you are sure, I cannot rightly deny you." She poured him another glass and told him what she saw—the truth, without any embellishments. She had excised the harsher details from her own ballad, but it was true that Daen had faced death bravely. There was no higher mark of courage in her eyes than the unhesitant way he took command after Loghain fell, despite how pale with fear he had been only moments before.

Wynne had told her a little of what happened afterwards—how Daen would not let her heal him. The elderly mage did not know why, but said that she thought it was because he knew that it was hopeless for him, and that Wynne herself was too weak to try without killing herself in the process. She had used most of her lyrium in the battles towards and ascending the tower, and tapped her spirit's reserves in the first surge against the Archdemon. She barely had the strength to descend the tower again.

Wynne had also told Leliana the few words Daen had managed to say before he died. Leliana told Zevran those words now, too. She knew that they were not what he hoped to hear. They were words for the country, and held little comfort for a lover. But Leliana's ears were trained to catch and hold a person's voice just as well as a tune, and she could not forget how Daen laughed just before he drove his starmetal sword through the Archdemon's eye. She had heard him laugh before, of course, but never like that; it spilled from him, uncontrolled and unstoppable until the light came and took him far away, like a madman on the verge of losing everything. She could imagine who he thought of in those last few moments of his short life. She told Zevran this.

"Your Chantry says we go to the Fade when we die, does it not?" Zevran asked after the words left her tongue.

"That is one of the teachings, yes," she said cautiously.

"I see him sometimes, when I am asleep," he said absently, his fingertip balanced on the rim of his glass. "I know I do not remember everything, but I remember enough. Most times he is in the alienage, other times elsewhere, and always with his back to me. He does not turn, not until I have come closer. When he does, it is like he has never left. And that is always the moment when I realize that I am in the Fade. Dreaming of demons, perhaps. Or perhaps..."

Zevran did not seem to intend on finishing his sentence.

"How long have you had these dreams?"

"Since he left." Zevran faded into contemplation, his eyes closing, his head nodding like a sleepy child's.

Leliana decided it was time to change the topic. Zevran was slipping away again. And she had come to Kirkwall for a reason, after all, and he may have learned something that would give her more to take back to the Divine.

"I happened to meet the Champion the other day. Have you seen him? He is hard to miss; he is so tall, and very handsome in a dark Fereldan way. I am sure he has broken many hearts with those gray eyes of his."

Amber eyes locked onto her, clear of all signs of alcohol. "Ah, yes. You speak of the apostate who killed the Arishok. Sten will be ecstatic when he hears the news, I am sure, wherever he is now," Zevran said dryly. "I did meet the man myself only a few days ago, as well as his sister. They were...misinformed about a bounty on my head. But he is good friends with an old friend of mine, so our encounter was bound to happen sooner or later. He is a hard man to avoid. Nevertheless, he was...very helpful."

Zevran planned to be in Kirkwall for the time being, and had been observing the Champion on and off since their encounter, curious as to why Isabela had not struck out for the open sea years ago. As far as he could tell, all the Champion and the beardless dwarf did was indulge her love of cards and drinking. As much as she adored those pastimes, the Isabela he knew would not have stayed so long in one place just for them. Something else must have happened in the past to keep Isabela grounded in the Free Marches.

It was still strange to see the pirate queen without a ship, but she seemed content for the time being. And a sailor, after all, knew that a ship needed all of its hands to weather a storm. Kirkwall was no glass-calm lake, after all; Zevran could taste the heavy tang of fear in the air. Something was brewing. No doubt Isabela would find her way back to the ocean once it was over.

The Champion himself was indeed strikingly handsome in the exact way Leliana described—tall, with an open face capped with careless black hair and penetrating gray eyes. Zevran, however, doubted that the Champion was fully Fereldan by blood; there was an olive cast to his skin that spoke of a lineage from somewhere well outside of Ferelden, and perhaps even further than the northern reaches of the Free Marches. But he was clearly Fereldan in other ways, and Zevran did not doubt that he at least considered himself Fereldan to the bone. He wandered as all Fereldans in Kirkwall did, in any case, like a lost wolf pup chased from his mother's den.

He also seemed to be notorious for not turning down a single request for his assistance. Zevran observed them pouring in to his estate by the bagful, and they were no doubt in part responsible for the early signs of age around the Champion's eyes. Bodahn sorted through the requests every night and left only the most important-sounding ones on the Champion's desk, with the mage none the wiser. His sister took care of the rest.

Leliana clasped her hands together on the table. "Tell me, what is your impression of this Hawke? He is very charismatic, but a little strange, no? The Maker's Sun branded on his forehead, even when he is clearly not a Tranquil..." She shook her head. "He told me it sounded like a good idea at the time, whenever 'that time' was. It makes him seem so very...unpredictable."

Then, because she couldn't help it: "He...reminds me a little of somebody," she ventured. "Headstrong, and passionate, and a little sad and angry, hidden beneath a mask of cheer. Yet people look to him, even though he is an...apostate. It seems that people like that are always at the center of the storm. Perhaps he will do much for the plight of those like him in Kirkwall, no?"

The elf cocked a blond eyebrow. He knew who she was trying to describe, however awkward her roundabout method was. Daen was not the one Zevran would have drawn a comparison with, truth be told. Of course, the similarities were few, but they were there if one looked for them—the gilded tongue, the guarded eyes, the cocksure personality in a fight. The fire within.

But Daen had been a glowing ember, a beacon for those who needed help seeing. He had not asked to be so, but could not say no when the torch fell into his hands. The Champion was an inferno, ablaze with his own hunger. Daen had known where his home was; the Champion was still searching. And with his position now, the influence he enjoyed, with nothing holding him back except for a few friends, he was the most dangerous man in the entire city.

Zevran knew where the storm would gather and where the fist would close. The whole of Kirkwall would change before its Champion and the choices he made, and there would be none of the old left in his wake.

He felt his throat begin to clench as it always did when memories got the better of him, and he willed his muscles to relax. "The Champion is a well-meaning lad," he said casually, finally foregoing the glass to raise the heavy bottle and its last finger of liquid to his lips. "He is very ambitious, and bound to achieve even more greatness than he has already. But that apostate Grey Warden of his is going to bring the Champion a great deal of heartbreak some day, assuming the Champion does not break his heart first."

"How can you say that?" Leliana protested, ever the romantic. "They seem to care about each other a great deal. It is obvious to anyone who sees them together."

_How can I say it? Is it the tension, the jealousy? The way the Warden's heart is so clearly split between the Champion and something else entirely? The Champion's desperation, his willingness to blind himself to the signs, all for the sake of keeping the Warden by his side in that empty mansion of his?_

There were many differences. But there were also many similarities.

Zevran smiled at Leliana through the bottom of the decanter. The beveled designs swirled across the thick glass distorted his mouth, stretching it into a clown's painted grin.

"I can tell, my lovely bard. Never doubt it."

* * *

_Note__: Thank you for reading _Beak of the Crow_. It means a lot to me that you've read it to the end. Beak was sort of my "icebreaker" fanfic after a decade of no creative writing whatsoever, and while I think it definitely shows signs of lack of practice, I'm glad that I actually finished something! And Zevran is fun to write._

_I am so grateful for feedback and reviews, but __**please be careful with spoilers **__if you are kind enough to leave any!_

_Daen and Zevran's stories encompass a lot of firsts for me (first NaNoWriMo, Romance, fanfics in a decade...completed multi-chapter fanfics ever? Whoa). I think the next step is cleaning them up to go on AO3. As far as NaNoWriMo goes, I'm happy to report that although both _Clouds _and_ Beak_ were not at 100% completion by the end of November 2012, I did have at least 70K words written between the two—which is success in my book! I'm trying to work on a DA:2 fanfic now, although I've spent so much time in Daen's head that it's hard to shift gears to Hawke's. And work is definitely more important at the moment. Who knows, maybe it just means I'll be back again in another ten years._

_Special thanks and lots of love to Bioware and the Dragon Age writers, animators, programmers, and staff; EA; and the DA Wiki contributors._

_Super special thanks to everyone who favorited, followed, and/or reviewed while I was writing and publishing chapters. Every single one was so encouraging! Reviewers in particular—_Tatianafan1, CielShadow17, fanficfan, and Tobyk947_—thank you especially, so, so much. Your kind words really did go a long way._

_See you around!_

_-K_


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